


You'll Rise Up, Free and Easy

by Marli_Toled0 (orphan_account)



Series: Amphora; the Good Son [2]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Ana Jarvis Acting as Tony Stark’s Parental Figure, Artist Peter Parker, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Coming Out, Domestic Fluff, Edwin Jarvis Acting as Tony Stark’s Parental Figure, Emotional Healing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Familial Bonds, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Grief/Mourning, Historical AU, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, IronDad and SpiderSon, Irondad, Jewish Peter Parker, Kid Tony Stark, M/M, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark Coparenting Peter Parker, Minor Character Death, Mother-Son Relationship, Other, Pepper Potts Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Physical hurt/comfort, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Ana Jarvis, Protective Jarvis, Protective Pepper Potts, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Relational Healing, Self-Acceptance, Shy Peter Parker, Sick Character, Sons, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Whump, Tony Stark and Peter Parker Argue, Tony Stark-centric, With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility, early 1900s, ironfam, spiderson, transgender character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 65,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22503787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Marli_Toled0
Summary: Peter Parker, a brilliantly talented ceramicist-in-training, has been Tony Stark's apprentice for ten days. To his delight, he's able to work closely with Tony and begins to learn more about him and bond with him. However, just as it seems that they are becoming an established part of each other's lives, tragedy puts distance between them.Peter strives to be a source of comfort and support for Tony during a season of grieving, adapting how he shows  love to the ways Tony knows how to accept it.
Relationships: Ana Jarvis & Tony Stark, Ana Jarvis/Edwin Jarvis, Edwin Jarvis & Pepper Potts, Edwin Jarvis & Peter Parker, Edwin Jarvis & Tony Stark, Howard Stark & Maria Stark & Tony Stark, James “Rhodey” Rhodes/Carol Danvers, May Parker & Pepper Potts, May Parker & Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Miles Morales & Peter Parker, Pepper Potts & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Harley Keener, Peter Parker & Pepper Potts & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Tony Stark & James “Rhodey” Rhodes
Series: Amphora; the Good Son [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580446
Comments: 40
Kudos: 92





	1. Chokeberry and Baby's Cheeks

_May, 1868_

  
“Young Sir?” Jarvis peered around the trunk of a young chokeberry tree at the youth who was crouching in the knoll at its roots. He stepped around, keeping a gingerly distance, for he could see that the boy was vulnerable, like a raw nerve.

Tony, blushing from exertion and violence, sat panting a few moments longer, ignoring Jarvis. He clutched at his right fist which was torn across the knuckles. Sweat was heavy on his face and neck; the smell, like well-water, hung on him. Blood peeked from under his nose, and there was a thin film across his teeth.

Finally, Tony swallowed to force the remaining moisture evenly in his dry mouth and said, “Is Father going to be home tonight?”

Jarvis removed a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to him. “To my knowledge.” When Tony didn’t take the handkerchief, Jarvis pressed it under the boy’s nose himself. Tony resisted, but ceased struggling almost immediately. “Perhaps, though, when he arrives tonight, you’ll already be in bed, Young Sir.”

Tony looked up at him as though expecting betrayal. “You’ll tell him.” Then he added, without waiting for an answer, “Damn British butlers and their sensibilities…” Tony took over the pressure on the handkerchief and Jarvis stood upright again.

He said sternly, “Let’s leave damnation to the clergy, shall we, Young Sir? Unless you’re studying to become one?”

Tony scoffed then lowered his gaze deferentially.

Offering a hand, Jarvis said, “Stand up, please; crouching on the ground like a gopher is not dignified for a young man.” Jarvis noticed Tony roll his eyes as he obeyed; the butler stifled a smile. Tony pinched the handkerchief and removed it. With relief, Jarvis saw that his nose had ceased bleeding. 

When Tony was standing before him, meeting his eyes, Jarvis leaned toward him confidentially. “As far as a British butler’s sensibilities are concerned, I am your father’s servant, not a spy. I have no inclination to report your behavior only for the sake of it.”

Tony listened, blinking at him passively.

Jarvis’s voice softened. “The only time I might do so is if I deem your actions would lead you to greater danger than you would receive at Mr. Stark’s hands. Are we at an understanding?” 

At this, Tony quirked his lips; Jarvis nodded in a decisive manner. “Besides, any injurious behavior I witness from you, I shouldn’t wonder to think that we two could reach an understanding without need to concern your father.” He gave Tony a poignant look. “Do you agree?”

This time Tony nodded easily. He seemed to remember the times Jarvis could have handed him over to Howard, but didn’t. Or, over to Mrs. Ana for that matter. Matters were settled entirely between the two of them. On those occasions, Jarvis would let him explain himself, rant, cry, and blame others, firmly correcting him if he was disrespectful, but otherwise allowing him to fully express his grievances. Then, he would speak to Tony solemnly but patiently, like he was a man.

“Now,” Jarvis said, shifting to a more curious tone, “might you inform me what foreign object collided with your face so as to leave you in such a state? Perhaps also, what response to the object you gave?”

Tony erupted. “I was trying to keep these boys from carving up my friend’s tree!” Unleashing pent-up desperation, Tony’s voice cracked. His hand swung wide behind him to indicate the chokeberry tree. “He told them not to and they keep coming back to do it anyway! And they laughed about it because they knew it upset him. He’s real keen on this tree for some reason.”

“Your friend, Master Potts?” Jarvis asked.

Tony nodded. He huffed and tried to hide his emotion by chewing on his lip. There were little tears at the corners of his eyes. 

He was much more comfortable showing anger than any other emotion, even joy. Often he would mask his feelings with shouts, huffs, shoves, scowls, glares— or sarcasm and jokes, which Jarvis considered a “creative form of aggression.” Of course, if his father were around, he adopted a sullen disposition, or, at times, was an avatar of Howard Stark’s own persona. When Howard was away, his son became Tony again -- guarded, but more volatile. However, Jarvis had a talent for flaying the rage from the sadness or fear underneath.

“The other boys wish to carve it, you say?”

“Yes, you know, Jarvis, like their initials or something, like people do.”

“I see, sir,” Jarvis said and paused to think. He looked at the chokeberry tree; it was still a sapling, though nearly mature. The foamy white buds swayed in their clusters in the Northern wind.

Tony also turned and looked at the tree. “Samuel thinks the flowers look like lace. He’s kind of silly, but a _good kid_.”

Jarvis was slightly amused by Tony’s condescending use of the term “kid” when he was scarcely eleven years old himself. “A special tree indeed, sir. However, I couldn’t advise you to endeavor to stop them by force.”

Tony shuffled. Though he rolled his eyes, Jarvis felt respect in him, so he continued. “Or your fists for that matter.”

“We ought to put up a wall.” Tony muttered. “With barbed wire.”

“A creative solution, though, it would quite obstruct the view, wouldn’t you agree?” Jarvis deadpanned.

Tony sighed through his nose. “What about a trapping pit, then?”

Jarvis examined the grass stains on the knees of Tony’s trousers. “Better widen the scope of your innovation, Young Sir.” He replied absently while considering how he could clean the blood from the shirt and jacket so that Mrs. Stark wouldn’t notice. She kept strict inventory of her son’s wardrobe, particularly when they were abroad, as they were now.

Then, he remarked, catching Tony off guard, “I am pleased to see you’ve made such an important friend here, sir.”

Tony sniffed and shrugged. After a couple kicks at the ground beneath, he said: “Jarvis, I’m hungry. Is it luncheon yet?”

“You should just have time to bathe and make yourself presentable, sir.”

Jarvis led him back to the Starks’ Toronto estate by a covered path in the garden that was seldom used so no one would see the rough condition he was in.

  
  


_January, 1903_

When Peter threw open the front door of his and May’s house in Queens, Tony couldn’t help but notice the cotton scarf wrapped over his ears. “Mr. Stark! Come see how my latest test glaze turned out, sir!” He stepped quickly out of the way so Tony could enter and held out his arms to take his mentor’s coat, muffler, and hat. “I’ve decided to leave off on the layerings of celadon and copper red glazes and am trying some strike firing techniques with a different glaze mixture.”

Tony’s brow knotted in concern, but he remarked, lightly, “Interesting head adornment, Ms. Mozart. Do you have a toothache?”

Peter touched the thin cloth around his head. “Oh. No, May wants me to wear this to keep my ears warm.” He added, as though trying not to lie: “I’ve had an earache the past few days.”

“Small wonder!” Tony scolded. “I seem to recall you running around most of Christmas week in the icy wind with no hat. Probably blew all manner of viruses into your empty head!”

Peter looked at him unhappily. “But! I’m not contagious, the doctor says. I don’t even have a fever! Anymore.”

Failing to hide his amusement as Peter fell over himself verbally, Tony waited and said, “Easy Pete. No one’s planning to take you behind the barn and shoot you.”

“I just don’t want you to think I’ll get you sick, Mr. Stark.” Peter said. “I’ve been so looking forward to experimenting with you on peach bloom glaze. And, well…” A look of contrition contorted his face. As he began wringing his hands, Tony removed his coat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. It’s selfish of me.”

Tony hung his hat on the hook and then placed a hand on Peter’s head, tousling the scarf along with his curls. “You can’t run me off so easily, kid. I’m not worried over earaches.”

Peter grinned and led him through the hall and dining room, into the kitchen and to the scullery, his little ceramics alcove.

  
  
  


“Read me the recipe notes for this one,” Tony said. He tapped one of the five flat slats of clay arranged before him. The tiles reminded him of dominoes and he came to enjoy the _plink clink_ sound when he handled them. On each was the same glaze mixture but each had undergone a variant firing schedule.

Peter hurriedly finished chewing a piece of sponge candy so he could complete the request. Tony had brought over a box of the candy as a treat while they worked. (“Pepper would like you to believe this is a present from _her_ , but, as I am the one who brought it to you, and in this weather, I think the credit is due to me. So, you’re welcome.”)

Peter leafed through his small notebook. “For this test,” Peter read, “Gerstley Borate, 10.7%; Whiting, 10.7%; NC-4 Feldspar, 40.3%...” Tony nodded as he listened. He plucked the tile from the table and rubbed his thumb over it absently. Peter finished. “Then I added the tin oxide.”

“What percentage to the mixture?” Tony asked. He returned the tile and picked up his favorite. The freckling green, created by the high reduction period of the firing, spider-crawled through the patchy blush of peach. It truly bid his heart to rush at the beauty.

“.5% but I’m thinking of adding a higher percentage next test.”

Tony smiled and looked at him. “Why’s that?”

Peter was leaning eagerly toward him across the table, resting most of his weight on his elbows beneath him. Like a small animal, his eyes were round and animated as he piped: “More tin oxide will create a milkier effect on the glaze. Right?”

Proudly, Tony nodded. “That’s what I was thinking, too.” 

Peter seemed to realize that his mentor was pleased with him and he ducked his head, grinning. It was such an unrestrained expression of delight that Tony looked away. Peter had received so little guidance from his previous master that the kid was starved for feedback. Blessed now with more attention, Peter was accelerating in his pursuit of the craft.

Tucking away a surge of affection for the boy, Tony followed up, confirming, “That’s the effect your artistic little heart is set on, right?”

Peter chose another piece of sponge candy from the box. “Yes,” he said and Tony caught how that dreaminess he sometimes got began to cloud his eyes. “The glaze is meant to resemble a ripening peach, sir, with green mottles on a blushing pink.” Peter crunched the candy contemplatively then spread his fingers over his cheeks. “Well, I was very much hoping for a kind of baby’s cheeks look.”

“Baby’s cheeks?” Tony asked and he took some candy, too. “Is that a technical term? Or one of your isms?”

Peter blushed in answer. “Do you know what I mean, Mr. Stark?” He pantomimed for a moment, to illustrate his words. “Have you ever held a baby close and looked at their cheeks?”

A slight twitch ran across Tony’s face, but he answered, unaffectedly, “Yes, kid, I have had occasion to see a human in infancy.”

Clicking his tongue, Peter replied, “That’s not what I meant, Mr. Stark.” He mimed again, as though it would help. His nose nuzzled into the crook of his elbow. “Have you seen how a baby’s cheeks are so fair that their skin mottles when warm? And they get so rosy, sir?”

“Do they?” Tony said. He was trying to be patient with Peter’s reverie. Normally, he would sit back and enjoy the funny expression on the kid’s face and the rambling explanations for his thoughts that only made it more challenging to understand how his mind worked, but this was a tender subject for Tony. 

He and Pepper were unable to have children except through adoption. Pepper was anguished by the idea, though, so they never had. Instead, they supported and improved the orphanages and children’s homes of New York as well as they could as benefactors.

“My friend, Ned— his mother had a baby a couple years back, with his step-father and she let me hold her— well, actually his mother _had_ me and Ned hold her for a few hours while she cleaned and mended and took a nap and cooked… but, his sister was pretty as a picture, sir! Her cheeks would go dusky when she cried and they looked like red onions.” He laughed. “It wasn’t a nice sound she made, though.”

Tony regarded him with a gnarled expression. “You’re a rare one, kid. Not many find the inherent attractiveness of _colic_.”

“Will you and Mrs. Stark have a baby, Mr. Stark?”

Bucking a little, Tony reminded himself that this was a harmless question. Peter was silly-hearted and likely excited by the prospect of a child entering his life, even by some distant channel. Tony composed the ache in his chest. He sniffed and said, “Not likely. My lifestyle is not very conducive for raising a kid. Besides, I have my hands full as it is.”

Peter blinked. He said, “With what?” Innocence was plain on his face.

“With _what_?” Tony snorted indignantly.

“With me?” Peter asked, even more innocently.

Tony pushed out of his seat and marched across the floor. “Bonehead! I do _have_ a life beyond you and your ceramics. I am a very busy inventor, businessman, and philanthropist. You _may have heard_.”

Peter stared at him, perplexed.

Tony turned back. His arms flapped at his sides as a segue. “Well, are we going to increase the amount of tin oxide or should I return to my heavily-booked agenda? I’m sure Pepper would not mind having me chained back in the office, if you have no more need of my time.”

“Yes, sir!” Peter said. He managed to hide his smile from his flustered mentor as he donned his apron.


	2. A Cocoon in a Cocoon in a Cocoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a young boy, Tony was considered sullen and disrespectful by the household where he lived. Though Jarvis loved Tony, it was his wife, Ana, who first stepped up to the challenge of supporting him in his lonely life at the Stark mansion. She insisted that he was a brilliant young man who desperately needed grace and trust lest he grew up to be like his father.

_June, 1863_

  
Tall shafts of delphinium, larkspur, and foxglove enveloped the Jarvises’ cottage on the Long Island Stark estate. Jarvis’s wife, Mrs. Ana, had constructed the garden like a nest around their home and Tony often wondered if she were trying to let the flowers take them away from the Stark estate. 

He wished he could also vanish into the clouds of white roses, tuck behind the mossy stone fences, or hide in the thicket of the wisteria and hollyhocks. Not that he was interested in flowers, but he loved to imagine being encased, protected, and the Jarvis cottage seemed like a cocoon. So, around the age he learned exactly how to escape his nanny, Mrs. Crawford, and not be quickly caught, Tony began trying to burrow into that cocoon. 

The afternoon sun would be amber and he crept along the shadows, sticking close by the high hedges and behind the stone menagerie, where his father’s latest exotic fascinations were housed. When he reached the Jarvises’ cottage, he poked around the garden beds and found places to crawl inside. There, he tinkered with toys, taking them apart, laying out the small springs and gears in the dirt, then reassembling them from memory or deductions about their purpose.

Unfortunately, Tony was a very active boy and soon his attention span would meet its limit. When that happened, he would crawl through the foliage, leaving bruised plants in his path. Once, he brought a ball and tossed it into a wisteria, watching it tumble down through the branches. That’s how Mrs. Ana caught him.

“Little Mister?” She asked incredulously. Mrs. Ana was much more emotive with Tony than her husband. Unlike most of the people around him, she didn’t seem worried about pretense or presentation. She also had a skill for seeing through everyone else’s fronts.

Tony stood up among the foxgloves. Quite a lot of wisteria blossoms that had been ripped down during his game were strewn at his feet. He noticed for the first time the damage he had done as Mrs. Ana stared, a little heartbrokenly, at them. He shuffled and prepared an offhand remark— something to deflect the guilt he felt. He knew what came after that; she, the adult, would scold him, trying to force him to feel shame, regret, self hatred… and he would fight to make her think he wasn’t sorry and that he wasn’t wrong or bad. But, Mrs. Ana spoke before he could.

“You didn’t do this out of mean-spiritedness, did you?” She asked as though she had discerned this from his face.

Tony wasn’t sure how to answer. He was not used to being questioned with a tone of trust. Mrs. Ana returned her gaze to him. She had a broom in her hands and to Tony, she looked like Joan d’Arc leaning on a javelin. Her voice was kind, though.

“You must be bored. I doubt you’re properly stimulated by anyone here.”

Tony snorted. A wry, not necessarily respectful smile was on his lips. “Nobody interesting ever really talks to me. I’m stuck with _Ms. Crawford_ all day.”

Mrs. Ana flashed a co-conspiring expression. “Yes, well, I don’t endorse your tone and I would have you _fix_ your face, Little Mister. But, I imagine if I were meant to spend the day being bossed around by Ms. Crawford, I’d be hiding in the bushes, too.” She glanced over at the trail of flowers that he’d trampled. Pointing, she asked, “Are you what’s been doing that?”

Tony said it wasn’t him and Mrs. Ana frowned. “Don’t lie to me, Little Mister. I want to have an honest conversation with you. I haven’t threatened you, have I?” Her gaze was commanding but her words made him feel oddly grown up. “I’d like you to have the respect for me and the respect for yourself to look me in the face and tell me the truth. 

“So, straighten up,” she said. Tony, bewildered, obeyed her instructions. “Fix your shoulders, raise your chin. Now, are you the one that’s been burrowing through my flowers?”

Shrugging a little, Tony said, “Yes.” A lump was rolling in his throat. He chewed his tongue, trying not to cry.

“I see,” Mrs. Ana said. She showed him her broom. “I thought you were a groundhog. I was coming after you with my broom. Imagine how exciting that would have been!”

Tony grinned, despite himself. “I could have held onto the broom handle and it would be too heavy for you to lift.”

“Oh, but I could have poked it at your chest until you let go.” She returned.

“Then,” Tony said, “I could have gotten all my weight on it and you would drop it.”

Mrs. Ana regarded him with a measuring smile. “You’re quite the problem-solver.” Then, she leveled him with her next remark. 

“The servants here say you’re a little terror,” — he glowered, pain in his eyes — “but I think you’re too deprived of attention and exercise. I think you lash out rather foolishly but you’re not a bad boy. Just need an appropriate outlet.” She mused, chewing on her lip. Then she addressed him, once again resembling Joan d’Arc. “Who’s right, the other servants or me?”

Normally Tony could weigh his options and guide a conversation, even at this young age. It was his least violent defense mechanism. However, Mrs. Ana was unpredictable and very direct. This conversation made him very uncomfortable. So, he decided to remain quiet and see what she would say next.

Mrs. Ana drew a breath through her nose. “Come out from there now,” she said. “I have a football around here; we can play a while before I start supper. Do you know how to kick a football?”

Tony, busy climbing to the path from the garden bed, said, “I can learn. I can learn anything.”

Mrs. Ana noticed how carefully he lifted his feet around and over the foxglove. She smiled, thinking to herself that she had been right. Curiosity and maternal warmth washed over her; just what could she draw out from this child’s shell?

  
  
  


Jarvis was informed by a groundskeeper that Tony, who had been missing from Ms. Crawford’s charge for two hours, was with his wife, running in the field and kicking a football. Giving the staff enough tasks to occupy them a while, he slipped out without mentioning it to Ms. Crawford. Tony didn’t like the nanny and, frankly, neither did he. She had a formidable temper and no flexibility.

He heard them long before he saw them. His Ana was calling to the young master: “You’re not tired already?” And Tony was laughing. Jarvis’s entire chest swelled at the sound. It was nearly unbelievable. The boy, for all his lackadaisical attitude, hardly ever laughed. Yet, Jarvis heard him, panting and giggling, as he ran around Ana.

Tony’s jacket had been tossed in the grass and his fine leather shoes and socks were beside it. When he kicked the leather ball with his bare feet, it made a dull sound and Tony yelled “ow!” and laughed uncontrollably. Jarvis was close enough now to see that his wife was barefooted, too. She reared back and kicked the ball so that it spun wildly across the lawn.

Stumbling a little, Tony was too worn out to chase it again, so he spun in a circle and let himself fall in the grass. Gasping laughs wracked his belly. Jarvis helplessly melted into a smile of his own. Ana spotted him and waved.

“Why, it’s my husband!” She exclaimed. “We’re having some afternoon exercise.”

Tony struggled to sit upright. “We played football!”

“So I see.” Jarvis said. Then he raised an eyebrow at his wife. “Though I would venture to say you’re not properly dressed for the sport.”

Ana harrumphed. “Well, if he had any play clothes…” She looked down at Tony who was glowing pink with exertion. She smirked but not unkindly. “I can take care of that, though. Come back to the cottage and I’ll take your sizes.”

“Ana.” Jarvis voiced a quiet debate with her. She only crossed her arms and smiled impetuously. He gave in to her; it wouldn’t do any good to disagree.

That evening, after they’d had their sherry and Jarvis played the piano and Ana sketched buildings from memory, Jarvis raised a question. “I suppose you’re certain that you want to involve yourself with the young sir?”

Ana didn’t look up from her sketch of _Akademie der bildenden Künste Wien_. “Why speak that way? You love the boy.”

“I do very much so.” Jarvis said. “However, I recall you not very long ago forswearing children.”

“I’m not electing to become his _mother_. He just needs someone to play with him. And those blocks in his nursery are useless to him. He needs more advanced materials.” She shot him a look.

“Whether you elect to be or not, it’s almost certain that he will begin to attach that role to you. Young Sir will undoubtedly adopt you if you don’t him.” When he said this, she stopped her drawing and looked at him. He confessed, “Becoming close to him will also invite more of the Starks’ notice. I understood you to find them… _exhausting_.”

Ana scoffed. However, all she said was, “I realize.”

Jarvis said: “He desires strongly not to be alone, yet he’s afraid to ask his parents to meet his needs.”

“He shouldn’t have to.” Ana said with derision. “Is there not a single person in that household who sees that child as a _child_?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, I’m no expert, except I’ve raised seven siblings— but even I can see that the boy is a brilliant and charismatic thing that’s learning far too young to isolate himself in order to survive.”

Jarvis closed the songbook at the piano. “Then,” he said, “I have a proposal for you, though, I hope you would feel you could refuse if it did not suit you.”

“Haven’t I always?” She grinned and he felt his love for her soar.

The next morning during their usual meeting time, Jarvis raised the suggestion to Howard, who passed him off to Maria, who acquiesced after a well-crafted argument by Jarvis. Two days after, Ana started as Tony’s new nanny. The sullenness in him lessened noticeably and Ana never “lost” him. They spent most of Tony’s free time— between academics and etiquette training— outside, even in the winter. 

Ana quickly discovered in Tony a shared aptitude for architecture. Together they built many structures for play, such as a very large playhouse that Tony dubbed his “forge” after Arthurian tales of blacksmiths and men in suits of armor. He was stubborn about limitations and he was reckless— to the point, she said of megalomania. Ana was _thrilled_ with him, however, even while fearful for his safety. She taught him smarter methods for experimentation and innovation that didn’t end in sliced fingers and sprained ankles.

Ana also convinced him to approach other children in Long Island and attempt friendship. As long as Maria approved of their families’ social standing, Ana was allowed to invite them for play dates. If Ana stayed with him, Tony would try to make friends. However, there was very little success with this mission. Tony never seemed to let down his guard and was critical of the other boys once they were gone.

“Grace is a great aid to friendship, Little Mister,” she would tell him.

Still, Jarvis saw a considerable change in the two people he cared for most, and he supported them however he was able, until Ana’s death.

  
  
  


_January 1903_

Tony shuffled the deck of cards he’d carried in his pocket. Peter had loaded the test tiles in the kiln. Tony made sure he thought about the placement of the tiles on lower, middle or top shelf. Peter had; he told Tony that he had tested the temperature difference from top to bottom in the kiln immediately after Tony had given it to him. “There’s not much of a difference, sir.” Peter reported. “Hardly a full cone. It’s a great kiln!”

Tony dealt two hands, one for himself and one for Peter. He wiggled an eyebrow comically. “Of course. I picked it out,” he said. “Do you know any card games?”

Peter sat across from him at the table. “No, sir.”

“Well you’ll learn one this afternoon. It’s called All Fours. Listen to how to play,” Tony said and began to explain the object of the game. He showed Peter the cards and demonstrated how to select and play the right one. Then, he walked Peter through a practice hand. “See? It’s fun.”

Peter learned the game quickly and began to win tricks. He was unable to hide his excitement at doing well. A huge grin took over his entire face.

Tony feigned annoyance. “I‘ve changed my mind; this is not fun.”

“Well, I won’t let you win just so you have a good time,” Peter said.

“Be careful,” Tony said in amusement, “your little shoulders still need to support your head.”

“You do alright.” Peter jabbed in a friendly way.

Tony was taken aback, though entertained. “Peter Parker, I’m not sure I like you in a competitive setting!”

Peter laughed.

They played several more hands. Peter chatted about the test glaze results so far and all the variables and possibilities. Then, he said, “It’s strange, playing cards with you, sir. At the workshop, I would be on to another project. Of course, I usually do chores for May now, during a firing.”

“Yes, this is different, isn’t it?” Tony remarked while studying his cards. “Well, Pete, that’s as good a transition as any. Let’s discuss schooling for you.”

Peter blinked. “Schooling, Mr. Stark? Aren’t you my mentor?”

Tony played a card and won the trick for that round. He said, “For your ceramics-specific studies, yes, and I’m lining up additional tutors who are masters in the subject to supplement what I don’t know. But that still leaves things like Grammar, Mathematics, Vocabulary, History, Geography…”

Peter’s face contorted slowly as Tony spoke. “Mr. Stark, I don’t need to go to school! I already read.”

“I see. Is that your _entire_ argument, or should I wait to explain why you’re wrong?” Tony asked, still jovial.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter groaned, and Tony was strangely surprised by how young he seemed. “What use do I have for Grammar or Geography, sir? And, if I needed to know something, I could read about it at the library. Because I _already know how_ to read!”

“There’s more to learning than knowing bits of information, Pete.” Tony’s voice was beginning to become stern. “What if the library didn’t have the information you needed? What if you didn’t know what information to look for or how it’s organized in an archival system? School teaches you to research, to experiment— ”

“I do those things already, sir!” Peter cried.

“With ceramics.”

“Of course! That’s my trade, Mr. Stark. I’m not going to be anything else.”

That phrase zapped Tony with an inexplicable anger. He needed a minute to tame it. Peter, meanwhile began to stare at his cards, pretending that they were still playing the game. Finally, Tony wrinkled a brow at him. “What do you have against school, kid? Were you bitten by one? I’m very surprised that you’re so contrary about this.”

Peter sulked. “I just don’t see the point, sir.”

“When was the last time you attended?” Tony asked.

“Before my apprenticeship with Mr. Jameson.”

“So, you were about nine then?” Tony reasoned. Then, he tried a new tactic. “I thought you were lonely in that workshop. You had friends in school didn’t you?”

“All my friends are poor, too, sir. They all have apprenticeships now or work in the factories.” Peter’s words were spit like viper’s venom. “We don’t go to school.”

Tony was silenced by the word “we.” It was an undeniable separation. Peter belonged to a different set of people and he emphasized that in a way that implied Tony didn’t understand his life or what was important to it. Neither spoke for a moment. Tony tapped the edge of his cards on the tabletop.

“Your parents were educated people.” Tony said and saw Peter wince. This was delicate ground he walked but he doubted he could turn back now. “Both of them were scientists, weren’t they, and worked as experts at the University Library?” Peter took a breath that never seemed to end. “So, who is ‘ _we’_ exactly?”

Peter stood. “Excuse me, sir.” He strode toward the door, but Tony caught his wrist.

There was no need to hold strongly, which was a relief. If Peter had tried to pull away, Tony wouldn’t have held him; he wouldn’t have been able to allow himself. But, he was so perturbed by the kid’s behavior, he was grasping for some return to normalcy. “You cannot walk away when I’m talking to you, kid.”

No response— only a grim shift of Peter’s eyes from the floor to his face answered him.

Tony frowned. “Don’t you know, how smart you are?” It came out as beratement. He wished Pepper were there; she was better at addressing stubbornness. “You’re very impressively self-taught, I’ll give you that, but… you…” He shook his head; frustration took control. “Look, kid, I won’t let you throw away your potential. As my apprentice, I expect you to devote your time to a proper education.”

Peter went rigid. He was standing before Tony, allowing his mentor to hold his wrist. Tony’s hold was looser than a bracelet but he could still feel the kid stiffen. “So,” Peter said carefully, “you’re making me?”

Tony released him. He sighed heavily, eyes fixed on Peter. What did he need to say to end this?

Peter watched him with a slightly less sure but hard gaze.

They were at a standoff.

  
  
  
_August 1863_

Ana climbed the shadowy steps of the attic staircase. This part of the house was cold and bare. It seemed to her like a place purposefully forgotten.

Tony had not been in his bedroom when she entered that morning to rouse him. She knew this meant that he’d been up most of the dawn hours, and perhaps before, squirreled away in this _unloved_ place.

The boy had revealed, in confidence, the secret passage (a mostly unused servant’s hallway) that led from his room to the attic stairs. Proudly, he told her that if she ever needed him, he could “likely be found in my headquarters.” The room he used was gray in any light, shriveled, musty, and full of tin soldiers.

“He lies up there for hours and gives speeches to these toys.” Ana told Jarvis once. She fought to satisfy her need to explain this to her husband. “ _Hours_ , Edwin. And entire speeches about,” she said trippingly, “the future and advancement, but then he’ll break off from that, and urge his ‘troops’ to ‘follow the code of chivalry’ or he’ll tell these long, humorous anecdotes.”

At this point, her husband interrupted to quip: “Have you observed him engaged thus for _long_?”

Ana scrunched her nose at him. “I’ve not, but I’ve caught him often. Edwin, do you understand? He has a remarkable mind! He _will_ surpass his father one day.”

Jarvis stopped his piano playing and turned to her.

“Oh, have I earned your full attention?” She jibed lightly. “He will, scary as that seems. If that doesn’t awaken a greater sense of responsibility within you, you’re just hopeless.”

Ana peered around the unfinished wooden door. As she expected, the little master had lined all his tin soldiers— perhaps over one hundred of them— in battalions across the floor. He enacted an elaborate drama with the little metal men, moving piece after piece in military maneuvers that a six-year-old had no business to understand, as Ana said to herself.

She listened. Tony was talking to the soldiers, creating conversations. She realized quickly that he would refer to the same toy by the same name consistently. Could each of these soldiers have a unique persona? It wasn’t implausible, she thought. He also remembered details of dialogue between tin soldiers even after breaking to focus on the action elsewhere.

“What do you suggest for him, my dear?” Jarvis had asked her. Reliance and faith laced the question. She wasn’t sure she could answer. She hated this world that expected the impossible from its children yet bestowed power on them with no accountability.

“Grace,” she said finally. “And clear expectations, but mostly grace and trust.”

Tony stood when she pushed open the attic door. Crossing her arms in exasperation, she asked: “How many hours did you sleep last night? It is a little past seven now.”

Feigning nonchalance, he kicked at the floorboards. “I’m tired,” he said.

“Too late to think of that now, Little Mister.” Ana declared. “You know that seven o’clock is time to wash up and dress. You may take a nap at 10 o’clock, but you’ll have to endure until then.”

Tony sighed through his nose and rolled his eyes.

Ana walked to him and kneeled on the floor. She didn’t like to stand above him when she spoke seriously with him. She had also noticed a much better response when she met him at his level and spoke lowly. She did this now. “Do you know what my job is, Little Mister?”

“You’re a nanny.” He answered. “Last I knew.”

“I’m _your_ nanny.” She corrected. “What do you think it’s my job to do?”

He gave her an impatient expression. “To tell me what to do.” She shook her head so he joked again. “To make up rules for me to mind?”

“It’s my job to _love you_.”

Tony became quiet. He regarded her strangely. But, Ana continued.

“I do tell you what to do, and I teach you to mind, but my _job_ ,” she said, “is to love you. Now, I am a very proud and capable woman. I will do my job and do it well, no matter what anyone else does, and that includes you.”

The unconditional promise overwhelmed Tony.

“So, then,” Ana said, “what do you suppose your job is? You have a job, too.” She was going to discuss making good choices about his wellbeing and trusting the rules to keep him healthy. “What do you suppose that is?”

Tony hesitated. He didn’t want to be wrong. Trembling slightly, he shrugged, and said, “To love you back…?”

Ana started. Her heart was suddenly very insistent in its thumping. Just as Tony began to suspect rejection, she composed herself. She smiled. “Well, I was going to say ‘to listen,’ but,”— she nodded— “as you like, Little Mister.”


	3. Shadowboxing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension mounts between Peter and Tony on the subject of Peter's education. Peter enjoys the freedom of his days at home, following his passions with ceramics, reveling in the fine fabrics in May's sewing room... He doesn't know how to explain his trepidation at returning to school. Meanwhile, Tony remembers Mrs. Ana Jarvis, the first person to feel a responsibility toward him and to reach past his barriers.

_January, 1903_

  
Peter had a new routine for his days at home. He woke at six thirty, washed, and went to the kitchen where May would be singing. He made the coffee for them while May finished cooking. Then, they ate breakfast together at the dining room table, like they had when Ben was alive, only Peter was the one to read the newspaper aloud while May chided him to “leave the world’s troubles for after French toast.”

It was sweeter even than he remembered to spend his mornings with May. She always swept him away and danced with him around the kitchen as they were washing the dishes. He would laugh and encourage her back to the sink. It was a fun little charade.

If May didn’t need to visit a client for measurements or a fitting, she would work in her sewing room, on the cast iron Swinger, pedaling and humming, while the machine’s needle joined fabric. Meanwhile Peter would pedal his pottery wheel, elbows-deep in clay slip, throwing vases or platters or bowls. May joked: “We Parkers have ankles as thick as Samson’s neck. But, just our right ones.”

Most of the time, however, May was gone, visiting her clients on Manhattan or Long Island. The house was empty, but it was an emptiness that reminded Peter of the delicate winter sky, colorless, cold, but free. He liked this kind of solitude.

He experimented with form and glaze, painted and carved intricate designs, and shaped precariously tall or wide clay bodies, for hours. However, he didn’t have any orders to fill, and though he had plenty of ideas and passions to follow, he knew, with a deep sense of responsibility, that he must use his materials to create pieces to sell. But what? He didn’t have any clients like May or a shop like Mr. Jameson.

He was a business. Mr. Stark said that 40% of the profit would be set aside for expenses. If he continued to create ceramics without a plan, soon he would have no materials and no profit. Not to mention fuel for the kiln to operate. Peter had never been part of the business of Jameson’s Porcelain & Ceramics Co. Mr. Jameson wouldn’t have even allowed him to look at the cash register, let alone the accounting books. But, Peter had kept inventory and knew that Mr. Jameson ordered by comparing the inventory to the materials needed for upcoming orders.

So, Peter retrieved the slate he’d used for school and some chalk and kept good track of the materials he had. Peter tacked the slate on the scullery wall, where he would be reminded to update it as he worked. He also created a plan (though it was simple and stupid, he thought) of where he could sell his work. 

He knew this wasn’t enough, but he wanted to show Mr. Stark that he was thinking seriously, responsibly. This was one of the factors for his sensitive mood when Mr. Stark told him he had to go back to school. It felt like he’d failed already at being a ceramicist.

During the day, when pieces were being fired in the kiln, if Mr. Stark wasn’t there visiting, Peter would do chores for May. But, that didn’t take long, so he’d start supper… but, any earlier than four was too early even for stews. So, often he would either mold figurines that could be rewetted and clay used again, or, he walked around the house, reciting tongue twisters and passages of books he’d memorized. Occasionally, he would go into May’s sewing room and touch the satin or velvet fabrics, which he loved.

In the sewing room there were also bolts of the fabrics Ben had woven when he was a textile worker in Philadelphia. Peter ran his hands over the tartans and tweeds, thinking they felt scratchier than they should. Or, maybe that was the grief woven in them that made them feel barbed and sad. 

Ben left his life in Philadelphia to come care for Peter. The textile factory wouldn’t hold his job for him, so he accepted the loss, and he and May shipped everything they could afford to post to a little motel in Queens. Before they even went to the motel where the remnants of their lives were boxed and waiting, they retrieved Peter from the Blessed Virgin Orphanage.

Ben eventually found work at a New York textile factory. It was rougher— there were fights every day between workers, sometimes with knives— but it paid a comparable wage. May began work for the first time in her life since immigrating; she’d been a seamstress’s apprentice in Italy. In America, she was a washerwoman. They were happy, but Peter nevertheless felt weighed down by guilt.

He moved on from the heavy textiles to the gossamer laces. They were smooth as milk under his hands. Un-spindling them, he would let them wash over his arms or he put them over his head, like a bridal veil. Many times he remembered the Starks’ Christmas party and would become as light as the lace around him. In those moments, he pretended he was dancing with Pepper. Sometimes when he imagined this, he was dressed as himself that night, sometimes in a fine vicuna suit like Tony wore, and sometimes he imagined himself as Pepper, or, alighted in her silk and pearls and silver.

Peter was so happy. He was so thankful. But, the pressure in his aching ears was building as he thought about returning to school. They crackled at him about how far behind he must be in Grammar and History and how there were so many faces he wouldn’t know and expectations to meet...

  
  


Peter’s face was darkening, a sunset color. Tony hadn’t meant to upset him; he couldn’t help but suspect there was more to this than a young teenager not wanting to go to school. Tony hinged his jaw back and forth and focused on the sensation. He didn’t want to give in, either, though.

Peter was an intelligent boy— a genius, a _prodigy—_ and although it wasn’t unheard of for such people to accomplish great things outside the system, he needed to learn to “play the game” a little, too. Besides, Tony hadn’t lied; education was more than a merit, it trained brilliant minds to be efficient. If Peter was going to grow into the man he could be, he needed all the resources he could get.

Still, Tony had never seen Peter so belligerent. He drew a breath. “We’re not getting anywhere at this rate.” Tony tried. “Let’s talk more about it another time, hm?” He turned back to the table and began collecting the playing cards.

However, this suggestion did not ease Peter’s mind. “I don’t want to talk more about it later, sir. I don’t want to talk about it at all!”

Tony looked at him. He was escalating. Some dormant thing in Tony spiked up, like a scorpion tail. He said, in a measured tone, “Peter, we're done with this for today. We can talk when you’re feeling yourself.”

“I am feeling myself! Nothing’s going to change between now and then.” Peter leaned forward unconsciously. “It’s a waste of time for me to go to school, Mr. Stark.” Tony frowned. “I just want to learn my trade and its business.”

“How do you suppose you’re going to learn business without Mathematics or Economics?” Tony asked, irritation mounting.

“By experience, sir!” Peter exclaimed. “That’s what apprenticeships are meant to be.”

“By _experience_ , is it, Mr. Carnegie?” Tony drew back dramatically. “You want to delve in and run a business? You’re fourteen, Pete.”

Peter’s voice cracked. “You — you said all this was a business investment.”

“School is a business investment, too.” Tony said, this time more softly. _I’m always so affected by his tears_ , he moaned to himself.

“No, it’s not!”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, kid— _I’m_ not shouting at _you_.” 

This seemed to push Peter back down into a more reasonable mood. The kid’s shoulders slumped and he lowered his glare to the floor. After a gulp, he said, “Why can’t _you_ teach me Mathematics and Economics?”

Tony closed his eyes and sighed. Then, he tapped Peter’s chin to get his gaze. “ _I will_. But, as Pepper so often loves to remind me, I have a company to run, with hundreds of employees who depend on having a competent chairman of the board to get things done. 

“That’s not including a household to oversee as well, although Jarvis sees to most of that. Then there are partners like Rhodey and the U.S. Railroad Company…” Tony felt like he was rambling. He passed a hand through his hair and massaged his neck briefly. 

“Look,” he said, “I will teach you— _everything_ I know! But, it’s difficult to ride here, an hour both ways, and meet my other responsibilities and it's impossible to do it every day.”

In a small voice, Peter said, “I know.” He did understand, though it was painful. He wasn’t trying to demand so much of Tony’s attention.

“I just don’t want you to always be waiting for me to come. There’s no sense wasting time you could be studying. You should spend your time learning now, while you have more freedom. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Tony asked.

Peter was silent, but he nodded.

Just then, the kitchen door opened. May, carrying a large basket of potatoes, sidestepped inside. Tony stood politely when he saw her. “Oh. Good afternoon, Mr. Stark!” May caught sight of Peter’s expression and paused.

“Good afternoon, May.” Tony said cheerfully. “You’re looking lovely today. Allow me to relieve you of your load—“

But, she’d already set down her basket with a grunt.

“Thank you, sir.” May said with a wry lilt. She wasn’t one for such compliments, but she held an unusual amount of grace for Tony because of Peter and Mrs. Stark. Through their eyes, she had come to see past his social persona a little more than most of his acquaintances. “Hello, Peter, _motek._ How are your ears?”

“Welcome home, Aunt May,” Peter said in a bashful voice. “I’m fine.”

May nodded and turned back to Tony. “Won’t you join us for lunch, Mr. Stark? I can have it ready within half an hour.”

“Thank you, but I had better not. I have to meet with Rhodey about some railway business before he makes good on his promise to ambush me and tie me on the tracks.” He said drily. “I'm glad to see you, though.” Tony continued. “Pepper reminded me this morning that we’ve still not met to officially discuss the terms of Peter’s apprenticeship contract.”

May smiled. “From what Peter has told me, I doubt I’d have much to contest, Mr. Stark; it seems you’ve been wonderfully generous.”

Tony noticed Peter grimace. “I want to be sure he has what he needs to be successful.” Tony said and drew himself up as if preparing to leave. “Well, perhaps the next time you are at the mansion, the three of us could draw up the contract and sign it.”

May had noticed the grimace as well. She sent him a questioning look before telling Tony: “I was planning to deliver an order to Mrs. Stark on the 8th, if that suits you.”

“I’ll make preparations and send Happy to give you a ride.”

“Please don’t go to any trouble, sir. I can catch the streetcar.”

“It’s no trouble.” Tony said.

There was a pregnant pause. Peter realized that Tony was going to say goodbye. He didn’t want Tony to leave this way, after they had argued and he’d been so stubborn. However, if he apologized, he felt that he should agree to do what Mr. Stark said, and the thought of going back to the schoolhouse or any schoolhouse was beginning to make him sick. 

Tony spoke again. He looked at Peter, a little forlornly. “Will you come, too, Pete? It concerns you after all and I’d like to hear what you think about things—”

Peter bristled. He didn’t seem to believe that last statement. “Well, thank you, sir.” Peter said, not controlling the irony in his tone. “That’s the first I knew of it.”

“Peter Parker.” May chastised quietly and Peter immediately felt miserable. “If you have something to say, you should speak like a young man who deserves to be heard. Then I’m sure Mr. Stark would listen.”

Embarrassed tears started in his eyes and Peter hated how sensitive he was. The pressure in his ears was now a throbbing pain from all the stress. He barely heard Tony tell May that it was alright and he understood Peter was upset.

May interrupted his thoughts. “Peter,” she said. “Your face looks curdled as spoiled milk. What’s wrong?”

Peter sighed. “Uh, I… um.”

Tony cleared his throat. “We were just speaking about… the possibility of continuing Peter’s schooling.” Tony took a breath. “He’s not too keen on the idea.” May glanced at Peter with a slight worry to her eyes. “But I think he has promise and could easily attend a good college—“

Peter balked. _College?_ The future, which was once like a cold sky, gave way to a tidal wave. It was at his door, crashing heavily, hemming him in, and he couldn’t breathe.

“I agree.” May said simply. Wildly, Peter snapped his attention back to her. “But, let’s not talk about it now. We can figure it all out on the 8th.”

“May,” Peter said, but she cut him off.

“We’re not talking about it anymore today.” She said in a pleasant but firm voice.

  
  
  
_April, 1864_

Tony returned to crawling through the flower beds of the Jarvis cottage only at night. He told himself he was a scout. He was gathering important information at great danger to himself by spying on enemy troops. Really, though, he wanted to be near Ana and Jarvis, though he knew he was not allowed.

Mrs. Ana had already told him no when he asked her to sleep in his bedroom during a few big storms. “I have my own bed and you have yours. Besides,” she said and pointed to the ceiling. “You know of those tall spires on top of the mansion?”

Tony nodded. “The iron spires.”

“Right,” she said and smiled. “If any electricity from the atmosphere ventures too close, the spire will conduct it down the rod and safely along a wire into the ground.”

Tony thought of all the lightning that must be in the ground as he rooted through the dirt. Almost superstitiously, he was thrilled every time his foot or fingers disturbed the soil. What _would_ it feel like to be full of electric power?

Under the wisteria and hollyhocks he was shielded from the downpour and dropped his umbrella at the entrance of his tunnel through the thicket. He was very gentle with the plants so he wouldn’t crush them and upset Mrs. Ana. Closer to the cottage, he saw a warm glow from a little cellar window.

Inching up, he peered inside and was instantly captivated. Jarvis was in the amber lamplight, but not dressed in his staunch black suit and patent leather shoes. He wore sporting trousers with knee socks and a simple cotton undershirt. He also had on a beaten pair of plimsolls that Tony had never seen before.

The lantern sat on a low surface, perhaps a box, behind Jarvis so that his shadow was hard-cut on the wall before him. Jarvis jabbed at his shadow or cut a fist upwards occasionally— no, Tony realized, _rhythmically_. Jarvis’s feet never stilled or tripped. He seemed at once steady and speeding through time. Sharp breaths matched his patterned movements.

Tony couldn’t keep his own breath. It kept leaving him while he watched. Eventually, Jarvis let his shadow alone and moved to a seemingly very heavy leather bag that hung from a trio of chains. Jarvis punched the bag with such force— and the sound of the connecting blow was so deep— that Tony’s heart lost rhythm. Jarvis broke into a reverie of strikes.

The sky jealously unleashed obnoxious thunder above Tony’s head. Stupefied, his brain translated the peals into the scene with the punching bag and Jarvis boxing. It was like a revelation or a child’s first ghost story. Tony was awed and irrevocably obsessed.

Mrs. Ana came down the stairs and joined her husband. She was also dressed in sporting clothes, but Tony was very used to the sight. It’s what she wore when they played, or, “exercised” as she called it. Jarvis paused and seemed to greet her. He kissed her cheek and she reeled, laughter throwing back her head.

A different sort of fascination filled Tony. He laid down, belly flat in the dirt and seedlings. His chin rested on his chubby arms. He felt the desire to curl up like a pup, resting, watching a game across the room that he wasn’t supposed to join. Still, he hoped he’d be invited.

Mrs. Ana squared up; just like Jarvis, she began to bob and float around, circling her husband. She had that winsome daredevil look that Tony loved so much. That look meant fun. Jarvis moved, too, and the two of them began to spar, bare-knuckled.

Tony couldn’t believe it. He jolted up, but froze. It seemed like his mind had ground to halt.

Jarvis jabbed at Mrs. Ana, who effortlessly dodged. She was so fast! And she was laughing. Jarvis smiled as well as he blocked her punches. A couple times a strike would land and Tony’s stomach would lurch in a fearful excitement. But, once it was clear that neither of them would hurt the other, he relaxed and began to have fun, too. Both Jarvis and Mrs. Ana were obviously strong, but what thrilled Tony most was their speed.

They moved almost together, hardly seeming to be fighting at all, they were so skilled. Also, they knew and understood each other, which lended to their even match-up. Huffing, they paused after a while and stretched. Jarvis ran his hand up Ana’s neck. She leaned in and nuzzled noses with him. Then, they began to kiss.

Confusion and frustration overcame Tony. He worked at the little window until he could swivel the pane inward. He called out, “Wait a minute! Who won?”

“Good Lord!” Jarvis cursed— Tony burst into giggles— 

And Mrs. Ana exclaimed: “It’s that groundhog, back! Where’s my broom?”

Mrs. Ana was quickly marching up the stairs, laughing and scolding at the same time. Soon she had him muffled up in a large blanket and was scrubbing dry his dark hair. “I thought we were quite past snooping in the bushes, Little Mister!”

Tony couldn’t be suppressed, however, not by any amount of correction. “Were you boxing? Each other? I didn’t know women boxed their husbands.”

Mrs. Ana snorted, but otherwise ignored his happiness. “What’s going to happen when you’re discovered missing?”

There was no hint of concern in his voice. “No one ever comes to my room unless they have to. Mother might come, but she’s in Paris right now for summer clothes shopping.”

Mrs. Ana moved on to his ears, wiggling her fingers, enveloped in the blanket, at the opening of each. Jarvis entered the parlor, now dressed in day trousers and a starched cotton shirt. Tony smirked at him. “Do you not wear pajamas, Jarvis?”

“With guests in the house,” Jarvis said, “I should think not, Young Sir.” Mrs. Ana chuckled a little. Jarvis recoiled slightly. “Is that snicker aimed at me, beloved?” His voice was underlaid with a pretend wounded tone.

”Most certainly it is,” she said. “I hope you don’t expect me to don an evening gown to receive this little runaway prince.”

Tony watched them in this sacred, domestic setting, noting how differently they acted, even with each other. Tony was an observant boy. He remembered the way people spoke, the looks on their faces, and the gestures they used. 

As he grew, he began to see more: tics, minute expressions, doubletalk, etc. This skill was essential to avoiding his father’s anger and his mother’s tears of disappointment. It also helped him build a buffer between people and his emotions. It was never safe to be honest about how he felt. Every year, he was a better performer.

Jarvis and Mrs. Ana were performers, too. He realized this when Jarvis walked into the kitchen fully dressed at 8:45 at night. Mrs. Ana didn’t go to such lengths, but he’d seen her bite back derision toward different people on the estate, including his mother at least once.

_October, 1863_

He’d taken apart a jack-in-the-box his mother brought him from France. He figured out that the puppet was on a spring easily; he could feel the wiry coil through the puppet’s thin velveteen body. However, he wanted to see how the turning crank released the lid on the box. Mrs Ana had walked in to find him trying to pry the puppet out; so, she retrieved a small screwdriver and supervised as he unfastened the bottom panel so as to keep the toy from being truly damaged.

Maria, his mother, had entered his nursery just as he plucked the little music box from the toy. Tony could remember how her face succumbed to a storm of hurt emotions. “Tony! _Figlio ingrato,_ why have you done this?” Her voice was wet with tears. “Your mama bought that specially for you, and after we were apart so many weeks.”

Mrs. Ana had stood, hesitantly holding an explanation on her tongue. Tony dissolved into tears immediately. Instead of trying to explain himself, he only apologized again and again. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Don’t cry, Mama!”

Maria sobbed. “You’re too old to call me that. Do you want your father after you?”

“No.” He said.

“Look at this.” Maria continued, picking through the mechanisms laid out on the floor. “Did you not consider how I would feel? I don’t buy you special toys for you to wreck them.”

Mrs. Ana took a sharp breath, but she pursed her lips.

“I can fix it, Ma—Mother.” Tony hurried to reassemble it. Maria sighed and massaged her forehead. “I remember how it fits together. I’ll fix it right now!”

Maria seemed to notice Mrs. Ana for the first time. “Mrs. Jarvis, did you permit him to do this?”

Tony paused. He helplessly looked between Mrs. Ana and his mother. Then he repeated, “I can fix it, Mother. I love my gift!”

“Tony, stop crying.” Maria said wearily. “Mrs. Jarvis?”

“I’m sorry, madam,” said Mrs. Ana. Tony’s heart clenched. He became angry but couldn’t understand why.

“Disrespect and disregard for possessions are not habits I would expect you to promote as his caretaker.” Maria said.

Mrs. Ana took a breath through her nose as quietly as she was able. “I don’t believe the action was committed with any harmful intent, Madam Stark. He was learning how the toy works.”

“Learning how it works?” Maria parroted. She scrutinized her son and the beginnings of trust reappeared. “ _Capisco_ … You should think before you act, Anthony, _cuore mio_.”

This time, Mrs. Ana did not restrain herself as much. “It seems to me he was thinking of his future as an engineer. Master Stark should be quite proud.”

Tony remembered the expression on his mother’s face as she left his nursery. He had reassembled the jack-in-the-box as quickly as he could and left Mrs. Ana to run and show his mother. But, when he found her, she was somehow dried up, disconnected, despondent. “Impressive, _cuore_.”

He threw the jack-in-the-box when he returned to the nursery and Mrs. Ana jumped from the rocking chair. His little fists were tight enough to drive his short fingernails into his palm. His shoulders were quaking. He felt hopelessly out of control. Mrs. Ana approached and kneeled before him. Wordlessly, she took both his fists and held them firmly.

Tony gasped; he’d been holding his breath since the toy was launched out of his hands. “It’s your fault!” He was lost. “Mama— Mother’s angry. She hates me.”

“Your mama loves you. Her feelings are hurt; and, yes, I bear some responsibility in that.” Mrs. Ana waited until she could be heard over his tearless sobs. “People don’t understand each other all the time. Their spirits are wounded and they become angry. But, they _do not_ cease to love those dear to them.”

Tony felt every muscle contract; it was as though he were trying to crush himself from the inside. His fingernails bit deeper into his hands. He wanted to punish himself for what he did, for how his mother felt.

“You’re angry now.” Mrs. Ana persisted. Her hands loosened around his until they felt like a mitten, warm and unrestrictive. “Have you stopped loving anyone?”

Tony gritted his teeth. _Yes_. “Me!” It was pure, honest, and unbearable.

Mrs. Ana choked. Fear shone in her eyes and Tony collapsed into tears and, quickly, hyperventilation. When she put her arms around him, he flailed at her. Mrs. Ana took the blows without reaction. She tightened her hold and hefted him onto her chest, holding her arm like a bar under his legs. Dizziness prevented much more struggle.

She opened the window clumsily. A swell of fresh air splashed his face. Then, still gripping him, she hooked a foot under the rocking chair and dragged it to the window. Despite so much gasping, Tony felt like he wasn’t breathing at all. His lungs began to hurt. She sat, pressed him against her chest and began to rock him.

“I’m going to hold a hand over your mouth,” she said, “and close one of your nostrils for a little while, but you’ll still be able to breathe.” Hard hiccups were all the answer he could give. She used the hand that had been under his knees to clamp over his mouth. The thumb of that hand plugged one side of his nose.

Breaths slowed and balance returned. Tony’s lightheadedness pained him. He slumped against her. She kept her free arm around his shoulders, supporting him. When she felt he was in control of his lungs again, she uncovered his mouth and her hand joined the other around his shoulders. He yawned in the cool breeze from the window.

For a long time she rocked him. The chair creaked; its wood was worn down and each piece rubbed against the other. He didn’t mind, though. There was something about this that felt necessary— every aspect of it, down to the croaking of the chair. Tony realized furiously that he was chewing on his thumb. He removed it, thinking how he’d be reprimanded if anyone had seen.

Then, Mrs. Ana spoke. “No one has stopped loving you, Tony.” He stilled at the sound of his name. This sounded like a secret, so he listened. _No one_. He felt her kiss his hair.

“You were not at fault,” she said, her cheek still resting gently on his head. Her murmuring voice was close to his ear. He felt enveloped, like in the tall foxglove and delphiniums. “I love how you’re curious, how you discover the purpose of things— discover their function… I love the way you take things apart to learn about them. I love how you put them back together.”

He listened.

“You’re a kind boy.”

She kissed his head again.

_April 1864_

In the Jarvises’ kitchen, Mrs. Ana’s voice sounded different than when it was so close by his ear. That time they spent when she rocked him by the nursery window was different. Nothing like that had happened again since then. He wondered, somewhere in the soundless part of his mind, if she would ever hold him again.

“Tell me, Little Mister,” Mrs. Ana addressed him sternly, “what exactly possessed you to sneak through my garden in this deluge?”

“Your cottage doesn’t have any spires,” he said. “I decided to check on you.”

Jarvis asked her a question with his eyes. But, Mrs. Ana ignored him and smiled at Tony, a hand over her collar. “You are a sweet little thing, aren’t you?”

“I can walk you back to your room, Young Sir.” Jarvis offered kindly.

“But I just dried.” Tony argued. “May I stay here?” He looked hopefully between the two of them.

“I hardly think you’ve _dried_ ,” Mrs. Ana said with a laugh. Then she looked at her husband. He gave in easily.

Tony was changed into a clean shirt of Jarvis’s which worked as a nightgown. Jarvis warmed a cup of milk for him while Mrs. Ana checked that the guest room sheets weren’t dusty (from disuse.) Tony felt half-asleep when he crawled into the bed. Jarvis surprised him by tucking the blankets around him. “I hope you’ll inform us should you need anything during the night, Young Sir.”

“Thank you, Jarvis.”

Mrs. Ana came to the other side of the bed and fluffed the pillows under him. “I’d have you get a proper night’s sleep, Little Mister.” She warned but with no severity. Her hand traced his forehead and he closed his eyes. “Enough mischief for tonight.”

He felt her press her lips to his temple; then, there was only sleep.

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

Peter handed Tony his hat. He wanted to ask Tony not to leave; he didn’t say anything like that, though. Instead, his mentor cleared his throat. “I was going to ask you, Peter,” he said. “I am delivering a lecture at the university on Monday. Would you like to go with me?”

Blinking, Peter felt a little hope light in his chest. “To the university?”

“I could take you in to the university library.” Tony said. “If you’d like.”

The university library, where his parents worked… he’d never been allowed inside; it was reserved for students and staff. Peter shuffled. “I’d like that, sir.”

Tony smiled and Peter couldn’t help returning it. “Well! We’ll meet Monday. The lecture is at one o’clock. We can lunch in Greenwich Village before and you can spend as much time among the stacks as you wish in the afternoon.”

Peter softened. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

Tony winked at him, which was an unusual gesture. Peter thought that they each were feeling very awkward after this afternoon together. He was worried, but felt Tony’s hand on his head, like normal. He forced a goodbye and watched Tony walk to the small barn that was built in the Parkers’ lot for Tony’s horse. Then, May called him inside.


	4. Those Days of Living Gently

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Childhood is sweet and cruel to both Peter and Tony. They are loved, but each faces violence in their every day. It informs who they grow up to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: mentions of child abuse, mentions of bullying
> 
> The theme of child abuse will heavily impact the next chapter as well. Please keep yourselves safe and protected! This story is not meant to hurt anyone.

_January, 1903_

Peter flitted outside in the morning light to get more firewood for the kitchen. He returned to the doorway less than a minute later, calling to May. “Come look at all the little prints the birds made in the snow!” He cried.

Smiling, she followed him out to a patch of white close to the bare American ash shrubs, where the birds liked to rest. May hummed cheerily, appreciating the delicate tracks made by the birds’ hopping feet. The shadows of these veinlike prints were blue against the crystal snow.

“Aren’t they pretty?” Peter asked.

“As a picture, _bambino_.” May touched his shoulder. Then she urged him: “Fetch the wood and hurry inside if you don’t want those ears of yours to turn worse.”

Peter grinned, shaking his head. She’d already made him a pair of earmuffs from an old quilt and some wool. He wore them to please her but felt the lingering earaches were finally gone. For two weeks they had held on and May fretted about hearing loss. But, the only impediment to his hearing were the earmuffs. 

While she returned to the kitchen to mind the lox, he jogged to the woodshed. In his mind, he assembled the colorants he would need to create that opalescent blue. Rutile, maybe, could be coaxed into that cornflower hue. How would the little veins look on a porcelain body? When he entered the kitchen, with his basket of firewood, he asked May her thoughts.

“Mmm.” She pondered the question briefly. “I think you could make any idea into a beautiful artwork.”

“That’s not much of an answer, Aunt May,” Peter said ruefully. “I want to know what you think of how it looks.”

“I’d have to see it, _bambino_.”

“Well, when you imagine it, though.” He persisted and she laughed.

“I’m not in your mind,” she said. So he wouldn’t feel too disappointed, she added: “But you do show me so much of the world that I might bustle past. You have a gift, _sheifale_.”

He let the topic go, though he felt silly for asking at all. In the little brass box by the stove, he stacked the logs from his basket, scolding himself. Why couldn’t he ever express what he was imagining? It seemed the only means to let anyone into his head was to recreate his thoughts and feelings in the clay. Even then, they never resonated in others the way they did in him.

“Honestly,” May said. “You know who you ought to ask? Mrs. Stark.” Peter brightened, so she continued. “Mrs. Stark is in town for a while, I understand. She has a wonderful sense of aesthetics…”

Peter interrupted with a mock chiding tone: “Aunt May, you make beautiful dresses and blouses—”

“There’s no doubt,” May said, humorously. “However, I piece together what I’ve already seen. _You_ create things no one else has ever seen. You have an artist’s soul.” She transferred the lox onto their plates. “I think Mrs. Stark has a _sensitivity_ …” Her words teetered on the back of her tongue. Unsurely, she said, “... For beautiful things— but also people. I think— Mrs. Stark would understand—what you tell her.”

Peter closed the lid on the box then carried the basket to its place by the back door, considering May’s suggestion. He missed Pepper even though he had seen her less than two weeks ago, on the day after Christmas. She, Tony, and Peter had talked for a little while about his apprenticeship. Of course, they were all soon distracted. 

Tony tinkered with a music box that Pepper had gifted him for Christmas; and, somehow, he and Pepper began to play a game in which he wore a blindfold and she directed him, around furniture, from one end of the room to the other. He’d done well until Tony had snuck up silently and poked his chin unexpectedly, causing him to cheep like a startled mouse.

Perhaps, he thought, wilting, they should have focused more on the apprenticeship. There were obviously some differing ideas about it between himself and Tony. Not that he was ungrateful— he sighed miserably.

Is that what Tony thought?

May glanced at him compassionately. “Peter, after breakfast, would you be able to help me make tulle flowers?” He turned to her with a smile, thankful that she’d pulled him out of his head. “Just until Mr. Stark comes to fetch you for your outing?”

“Of course, Aunt May.”

By nine o’clock the table had become a grove of cherry blossoms made of tulle. Peter allowed his mind to wander as he twisted each little flower. Soon Tony would arrive and they could try to talk again. Hope was still in his heart that he could articulate himself without losing his important friendship with Mr. Stark.

  
  
  


_April, 1868_

Ana despised traveling anymore; it was a stone in the pit of her stomach from beginning to end. All the papers and acting and constant scrutinization by government officials… She’d loved traveling once, when she was innocent and free, but after all the danger of her young adult life, she knew that peace and safety could only be found at home— the home she made, not the one she left.

Realistically, she could have been exempt from going to Canada if she had pushed. The trip was only through the summer and Tony didn’t need her as often now. As he’d grown, she had transitioned from his nanny to the role of his governess. She had a background in education that even satisfied Maria’s standards. Tony was more independent and wouldn’t need lessons over the summer; if Howard insisted he studied, he could always be occupied with bookwork— _in theory._

Yet, four months alone, without Edwin and Tony, seemed too high a price to pay for comfort. Edwin assured her that crossing the Canadian border was nothing similar to the secured bordered of Europe nor like entering America from Europe. Also, the Starks had influence and money so as to not be questioned in anything they did. She snorted at this.

“I mean this as a comfort, beloved, truly,” Jarvis said. She could just see him smiling dryly in the dim dawnlight of their bedroom. “But there’s a higher likelihood we encounter a criminal than an official at the border.”

“What ease you bring me, my love.” Ana retorted, glaring at him across her pillow.

He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled until she was flush against him. She tucked her head into his neck and sighed. “Even then” —he murmured into her hair— “There’s nothing to fear,” he said. “Many years have passed and I’ve never relied on inhabitants of this continent to have a knowledge of foreign affairs.”

Ana decided to trust him, just as she had when she was twenty-two. He had helped her escape the war that her family had adopted in her place. For this, he deserved her faith. “Did I ever tell you about the remarkable person I met in Budapest about twenty years ago?” She grinned then gently began to kiss along his collarbone.

  
  
  


_May, 1868_

Summer in Canada was somehow reminiscent of her youth. Or, perhaps it was an illusion caused by her absorption in the Little Mister’s boyhood. Tony was happy; her heart was always so full when he was happy. It nearly ached. More than once, in fact, she found herself teary while watching him run through the grass, racing kites through the sky. He had made a friend at last and was adorably devoted to him.

The other boy was slight but tall, “all elbows and knees” as she heard Edwin say, gentle, patient, and bashful. Yet, Ana also detected an almost adult sense of self-awareness. His name was Samuel. Maria approved of him, as he came from a family of similar but not competitive wealth. Howard openly mocked the boy as a “dandy” and a “silly-heart.”

Ana wondered what crime it could be for a child to be sensitive. Or whimsical. No, Howard valued analysis, innovation, imperturbability, and any sin that made a businessman look powerful in a smoking room. He never allowed his own son to be expressive or sentimental. Fortunately, Tony found moments of safety and Ana fiercely defended his friendship with Samuel.

With bare feet, the two galloped over the lawn of the Stark’s Toronto estate. They pulled kites behind them that Tony had made, based on the designs Ana and he had created when he was much younger. She beamed at the sight of them, sun-backed, in the sky; they were strong kites and fast.

He had burst into the windowed porch where she was sketching the _cour d'honneur_ of the _Királyi Vár_ , and asked if she had any pink, green, or blue colored paper. “I’m going to make kites, Mrs. Ana, for my friend and I.”

“‘For my friend and me’ is what I’m sure you meant.” She corrected without severity. Laying aside her drawing, she said “Let’s see what we can find! Why pink, green, and blue?”

Tony hopped after her. He was already out of breath, whether from play or excitement, she wasn’t sure. “Those are his favorite colors. Well, he said white was his very favorite and pink was second. But, I already found some white paper in the kitchen.”

Ana led him to the room designated for her husband and herself. It was unfamiliar and uncomfortable to board in the main house— even if Howard had granted them this small apartment and not a room in the servant’s quarters. Jarvis was very favored by their master, she remembered.

Nevertheless, she missed her cottage. She missed the sanctuary of foxglove and larkspur, the stone fence and the iron gate that spoke “hello, bye” with its hinges, the water spigot where Tony liked to steal a drink before they tramped out to the field to play football. Mournfully, she wondered if the groundskeepers were treating her garden well. She had persuaded them to tend it for a pretty sum— pretty enough they ought not to neglect it.

When they reached the room, Ana rummaged through a cabinet of supplies she brought for Tony’s creative interests. These were things that Maria and Howard were not likely to prioritize, such as paste, string, dowels of differing sizes, wax for paper boats, paint and similar supplies. Howard, albeit begrudgingly, had finally noticed Tony’s prodigious acuity with engineering and architecture. He allowed Ana to order extra supplies like bolts, copper wire, etc., for Tony, which were delivered along with Howard’s own materials monthly to his lab. Howard wouldn’t see the purpose of colored paper, though, so Ana kept a supply with the educational budget Maria gave her.

Interrupting her thoughts, Tony asked, “Why didn’t you ever have your own child, Mrs. Ana?”

Her heartbeat was needlessly rapid. She blinked, hard, to control it. “I never wanted any.” It was a simplified explanation. 

Finding a collection of colored paper sheets, she pulled it from under a jar of tacks and returned her gaze to him. Immediately, she recognized that her comment had struck him in an unintended way. She took a breath and amended: “I was the eldest in a house of eight children—“ (and fifty revolutionaries, always in and out; mother tended them and I tended the children, the other children…) “and that rather quashed the urge for a while.”

Tony stared at her, so she continued. “Then, in Porthcurno in Cornwall, I was schoolmarm to about twenty students and, again, my maternal needs were more than fulfilled. They were my children.” She held out the bundle of paper until he took it. His face looked like a slack curtain. Behind it was a flurry of activity. “Why do you ask, Little Mister?”

He slipped away from her as if he were going to leave. Then he paused, rubbing his shoulder against the door frame. His back to her, he asked, “Why do you say they were your children?”

“I cared for them. I got to know them and they relied on me.” Ana wondered if he was jealous. Before she could say anything to validate his importance as her pupil, he faced her.

“Am _I_ yours?”

“Yes.” She replied. No hesitation.

“I love you.”

Tony’s words came in a steady but unreadable tone. It was a statement, a declaration, and yet underlaid with vulnerability. Ana’s chest lifted reflexively.

She wasn’t fast enough, though, in swallowing the knot in her throat; he fled out the door. Following him, her hand reached out, but he was gone. He couldn’t bear to wait for a response. His experiment was over. Alone with her breath like a fluttering dove, Ana sank into a chair. _I love you— oh, I love you, Little Mister!_

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

May looked across the sea of tulle blossoms at Peter. His face was ablush as he touched the tender fabric. She knew that he was lost in reverie, inhaling the beauty, letting it mingle with his soul, with the parts that reflected it. As if to confirm her thoughts, he said, “Sometimes I think it would be especially nice to be a cherry tree.”

She smiled, murmuring, “Yes, _sheifale_.”

Peter finished the blossom and reached for more tulle. “I wish I could be one, just for one spring day.” Eyes as soft as clouds, he blew a breath across his palm and the fabric flower floated down to join the others.

Considering him, she asked: “Would you like me to sew some onto your clothes?”

“I,” Peter said, chuckling, “I don’t know. Would I look ridiculous?”

May shook her head. She didn’t speak, but beamed at him. He smiled and his glance fell. Pausing first, May then said, “I have liked having you at home again.”

“Yes,” Peter said. “I’m very happy to be here with you, Aunt May. I am so grateful—” He let the words snuff out with a sigh. I’m so grateful to Mr. Stark.

“This should be enough,” May said and indicated the finished blossoms spread over the table. “Thank you.” With that, he stood to get ready for his outing with Tony, but May’s voice sounded. “I remember what school was like for you.”

Peter’s smile died. He sat back down with resignation, as though he knew this conversation was coming. May had not looked at him but she slowly raised her eyes when he sunk into place. “Please don’t make me go back.” He whispered.

“I would not wish to go back either, if it were me.” May kept her voice low. “I agree with Mr. Stark, however, as I said when he was here last.” Peter cast down his eyes to his sleeve cuffs and began pulling at them. “You deserve an education, _motek_. Refusing one will only deny you a full life.”

Peter drummed his leg. “Ned is apprenticed to the butcher and Harry is boarding at the academy upstate. School was only bearable before because they were with me.” His voice was as small as it had been when he had come home, dappling the floorboards with blood. “They defended me.” He said.

May felt a hot rush of emotion in her chest. School days had been dreadful for her nephew. Peter would come home from school very late, kept back by the teacher to empty chalk trays or pick up litter. At first May and Ben had hailed his sense of helpfulness and responsibility; but, slowly they realized that no other children were expected to do these chores so often or so many at one time. 

He came home with bruises and bloodied noses from his classmates, who he insisted just played too roughly in the schoolyard. They wouldn’t stop when he asked to be left out of these games. Many times Ben found him crying at the boiler room steps of the tenement building, only to have Ned explain that some mean trick had been played on Peter by the other boys.

Letting a hum pass her lips, May reached out and took his hands. “I know. But, _sheifale_ , you are _not_ defenseless.”

Pain crossed his face— pain and worry. May rethought her words. After she had turned over a few in her mind, she said. “Would that old _gonif_ Jameson ever have bullied you away from ceramics? Would you not have returned to study with Mr. Stark because Jameson terrorized you?”

“Aunt May,” Peter said with a huff, “that’s different.”

“Not so different.” She countered. “Would you have allowed your education of ceramics to stop?”

Wordlessly, Peter frowned.

“Listen to me.” May pressed his hands firmly. “You should at least talk to Mr. Stark about it. I’m sure he would listen. He’s a creative one when it comes to solving problems.” The last statement sounded wry, but it was spoken in good faith. She knew that Tony cared for Peter.

“Yes, ma’am.” Peter said. Though the quavers emitted from his heart were blooming wider and wider through his frame, he decided to trust Tony and talk honestly with him.

  
  
  


_June, 1868_

Jarvis woke to what at first sounded like a morning dove in their bedroom. The cooing filtered through his drowsiness and he finally realized it was a child’s muffled whimper. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and nearly stepped on a bundled form on the rug. After a sharp inhale of surprise, he fumbled to light the lamp on his nightstand. 

Ana lifted herself on the third strike of the match. She began to mumble a question, but they were both silenced. The little moans had begun to resemble words. Jarvis replaced the glass chimney of the lamp and moved away, allowing the flame’s light to reveal the bundle on the floor. They knew it was Tony.

“Edwin,” Ana said with a cry.

Jarvis lifted Tony gently. When his hands cradled Tony’s neck and knees, the boy seized. The indiscernible syllables quickened. Jarvis held him more securely as he tried to wrench away. Ana made room on the bed for the child to lie between them. She leaned over him, listening, to decipher the words. He was saying: “Please—don’t—please don’t—please, please!”

Stricken, Jarvis made a motion to wake him, but Ana stayed his hand. Instead, she fixed the blankets over Tony and lied beside him. She brushed his forehead and cheek with her hand. Then she spoke comfortingly to him. In sleep, Tony shifted toward her, though he continued to cry.

Jarvis watched his wife for a moment then followed her lead. He stiffly lowered himself to one elbow. Unsurely, he pressed a hand on Tony’s shoulder. Together, they created a nest around him. Tony began to calm.

“What nightmare do you suppose is causing him such a fright?” Jarvis asked.

Ana was quiet. She flashed a pointed look. “One he’s lived during the day.”

Jarvis sobered.

Without warning, Tony opened his eyes. He must have remembered where he was because he wasn’t startled to see them. First he saw Jarvis and sighed with— relief, Jarvis realized. Then, he found Ana and reached for her the way children do, asking to be held.

Ana drew him against her. He winced and scooted himself closer. “I’m here, Little Mister. We’re here,” she said. Jarvis noticed that he was included in her promise, included in this intimacy.

Snuggled safely, Tony closed his eyes. Ana gave Jarvis a nod; he stretched behind him and extinguished the lamplight. The three settled into each other. A long moment passed.

Then, almost inaudibly, Tony whispered. “Father whipped me.” Sleep abandoned both Ana and Jarvis. Neither closed their eyes again that night. Their gentle days would now become only moments stolen amidst a tumult in the Stark household.


	5. The Boy’s Done Wrong Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony revealed his suffering to Ana and Jarvis. He wanted them; he longed for their comfort. They decide how to approach their lives together now, knowing the danger imposed on the young boy they love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: descriptions of child abuse and injuries. I don’t plan to focus on this past this chapter.

_June, 1868_

Tony visited the Potts’ estate a couple times during their summer stay in Canada. He met Samuel’s mother and father, as well as his sisters, the first time and saw Samuel’s parents again on the second playdate. It seemed to him that the entire family was always at their home; but, surely his father and mother were away _sometimes_ , Tony reasoned. 

Samuel’s father, Virgil Potts, shook his hand and said, “I am very pleased indeed that our Samuel has you for a friend!”

Tony was bewildered by this and couldn’t remember how he’d replied. Mr. Potts shook his hand every time he saw him after, too. He was a very cheerful man for being so professional in appearance.

Mrs. Jennifer Potts, ”Jenny” Mr. Potts called her, was very quiet, but affectionate. When he said goodbye, she would take both his hands and squeeze them. “Thank you for visiting our home,” she said, like the moan of wind in a deep well.

As for Samuel’s sisters, Tony liked them, but they seemed more like ghosts or fairies than real people. They were twins and both invalids. They didn’t venture far from the settee the entire time Tony saw them. Their dresses were entirely ruffles and lace and ribbons. Ginger hair, a little blonder than Samuel’s hot pepper hue, fell in locks onto their shoulders so that, between their curls and their flounces, they were like two pom poms.

Samuel spent long hours playing with his younger sisters, who were too sick to leave the house. They were asthmatic and also frail from a disease that Samuel, if he knew it, never named. “I love them, but I _dearly_ love being outside,” he told Tony guiltily. So, he played with them until they drowsed, then changed his clothes and ran out into the sunshine and the wind.

Tony carefully carried the large kite he’d made Samuel in both arms. He’d used the birdlike schematic Mrs. Ana and he had designed the summer he was seven-years-old to construct a swan. The tail of the kite was made of pink silk stockings that his mother had thrown out, since Samuel said white and pink were his favorite colors. Tony made the swan’s eyes blue— a blue like chilled lips, like Mr. Jarvis’s eyes— and its legs were green, even though green legs were not naturally occurring in real swans. But, Samuel liked green.

He met his friend in the pasture near the western extremity of the Stark’s estate. Samuel was sitting by his chokeberry tree, reading. Samuel, like Tony, marveled at tales of knights in armor, but he read more poetry and folklore than Tony. 

There was a fairytale on which he was especially keen. Seven brothers became swans and were transformed back as human by wearing shirts knitted from nettles. That is, except for the last brother, who lived forever with one arm still a swan wing because his shirt was unfinished.

Tony was irked by the tale. There was no logic to the curse or the cure and it seemed the rules kept changing arbitrarily throughout the plot, just to cause the characters sorrow. At least in Arthurian legend, the magic followed a system. Samuel said, “But can’t you just imagine how it feels to have a swan’s wing or wear clothes made of nettles?”

Tony _could_ imagine this. It was how he felt all the time around his father: irritated, taunted, suffocated. “I suppose.” He said, “Why would you want to, though?”

Samuel shrugged and almost surrendered, then he said, “Because I feel that way. And it’s nice to see how you feel show up in a book someone else has written. Even if it’s a fairytale, eh.”

Tony disagreed. He didn’t want books to remind him of the way he felt; he didn’t want to be reminded by anything. Books were a stronghold, a protective armor, and a chance to hide. “What do you have to feel nettled about?” Tony sounded much more argumentative than he’d meant to.

Samuel only shrugged politely.

When Tony presented the swan kite to Samuel, his friend examined it with slowly rising awe. He touched the pasted papers of the wings and his mouth began to hang open. Finally, he asked, “You didn’t really make this, did you?”

Tony blushed and kicked the tufted ground. “Well, take it, you silly ass! It’s yours!”

Samuel mindfully held the kite, listening to it crinkle, and lifted it from Tony’s hands. Then he surprised Tony by setting it on the little mound by the chokeberry tree and whirling back to Tony with a grin. Samuel cried, “thanks!” and swiftly pecked Tony on the cheek.

Two very powerful sensations bore into Tony’s body, one in his ribcage and one below his stomach. He chuckled and pushed Samuel. Then, the two raced the swan kite across the field, running all the air from their lungs until their chests were burning. Tony ran faster and faster and didn’t seem to slow until he collapsed in the grass, feeling as wide open as the sky.

Samuel coaxed the kite from the air. Once they had their breath back, he led Tony to a large patch of wild blackberries. They played knights, battling through enchanted brambles to a forgotten kingdom besieged beneath. As they battled the thorns, they filled themselves with the fruit.

Tony giggled. “Your mouth is all purple!”

“The magic of the bramble dragon has taken hold of us!” Samuel exclaimed. He took a blackberry and smeared it thickly over his lips. They became dark like Tony’s hair, with thin splashes of red-violet like cordial wine.

Laughing, Tony grabbed more berries from the gnarled briers. Occasionally he scratched himself or caught the fabric of his play clothes on the thorns, but he didn’t mind. “Haste, pluck his brier bare and he shall surely fall, a trophy to our Chivalry!”

By the time Mrs. Ana hiked out to the very end of the field, calling for him to return for supper, Tony’s fingers, mouth, and clothes were stained. She looked at him and began to laugh. “You look like a grape-treader of Eger who stomped while standing on his head! Come, I believe you’re to have dinner with your parents tonight. Guests are here, so you’ll need to look presentable.”

Tony and Mrs. Ana bid Samuel farewell. Mrs. Ana gave the other boy a particularly warm smile and a wink before turning in the direction of the main house. Tony clomped ahead of Mrs. Ana, bragging about how Samuel had loved the kite and how strong it was. Then, he said, “I am going to build a kite strong enough to carry a person.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Ana said. “Well, I hope you’ve been giving your Mathematics your full attention.” Though, she knew he had; chiding was just a natural way for a governess to talk to her charge and Tony enjoyed verbal sparring.

He smirked. “I will build one that can carry you!” He promised grandly.

“Far be it from me to say you couldn’t.”

When they reached the garden patio, Tony’s mother was there, lingering while the staff cleared the glasses, table service, and bottles with only a little bourbon or sherry left at the bottom. Tony thought that his father’s guests must already have arrived. Maria was sniffing but her face was unmarred; it may have been a nervous tic. She was often edgy when Howard had guests.

Maria saw them, saw the dark stains all over Tony’s mouth, saw the brambles still stuck in his hair, and saw the carefree look on his face. She darkened and cried, “Anthony! — _bimbo cattivello_! Do you have no sense?”

Tony was quiet. He had grown to internalize his mother’s rejection, choosing to feign apathy when she became emotional. Usually, it incited Maria to try harder to elicit a remorseful response from him.

“Your father’s business partners are here for the evening and you return twenty minutes until supper looking like a tramp child!”

“Forgive me, fair damsel, for my most impertinent appearance.” Tony began, cheekily, and Mrs. Ana clicked her tongue. “I have forsook thy honor—“

“If all you’re able to act as is a fool, you will not play with that child again. Your father already disapproves of him.”

Tony went cold throughout his torso. “Mother, if I had known guests were coming, I would not have dared to be a child today. I would have woken as an adult—“ 

Mrs. Ana intervened. “Young sir, you will not speak to your mother in such a fashion. Go to your bath _directly_.” She tried to move him toward the house, but Tony stubbornly planted his feet. His friendship with Samuel had been threatened and he would not tolerate it.

Maria abandoned trying to scathe him with words. Instead, she looked at Mrs. Ana. “Mrs. Jarvis, I recall telling you that he needed to be dressed for guests by six o’clock.”

“We were just on our way to his bath when you addressed us, madam. It’s already drawn in his room. If there’s nothing else for you to discuss with him, I can have him dressed in time.” Mrs. Ana replied evenly.

With a sniff, Maria adjusted her jaw. Then she stepped closer to her son and lowered her voice. This was not her usual manner. And Tony was struck by her tone. Mrs. Ana noticed as well, apprehensively, how the woman was trying to intimidate him. “If you do not behave respectfully this evening, I cannot guarantee what your father will do.”

With that pronouncement crackling in his spine, Tony allowed Mrs. Ana to shepherd him inside the house.

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

Tony never showed up at the Parkers’ house to take Peter to the university library. Peter had even sat on the stoop for a while, watching, around eleven, until May discovered him and shooed him inside, out of the cold. “You plan to catch your death today?” She fussed.

“What if I was meant to meet him in Greenwich Village?” Peter asked May anxiously. If that were the case, it was impossible to make it there in time for the lecture.

May bit her lip. “Perhaps, _motek_.” She said, finally. “It would be more sensible for him than to ride such a distance and then back to Manhattan, with you. However, Mr. Stark seems the type to see to every little detail…”

Peter understood what she meant. Tony was a meticulous planner, despite acting insouciant, and he worried over others. It was unlikely that he wouldn’t send a carriage even if he didn’t come himself.

At 12:30, Peter was convinced that Tony had purposefully not come.

  
  
  


_June, 1868_

Ana sat in a wing-backed chair in their bedroom at the Toronto estate. She hated this style of chair; there were no such chairs— so pretentious and unyielding and overbearing— in her cottage home. Girdled in her own arms, she leaned uncomfortably on the armrest, watching Tony sleep in their bed, the “wing” of the chair hovering behind her. The nervous jerking of her ankle sent the foot of her one propped leg flopping in the air. She’d chewed her lip until a pinprick of tinny blood could be tasted.

 _Father whipped me_.

Tony had whispered to them last night, almost as though he were not in control of the confession. Immediately it had hit Ana’s stomach like a draught of icy water. Something was unnatural, wrong, about it.

The entire household knew that Howard was severe with his son. It was no secret that the man was punitively minded and the young heir was often disciplined for some infraction or other. Ana disagreed with Howard’s harsh attitude and his method of correction. Yet, she knew she had no right to contest his authority as the boy’s father.

It had been the most difficult for Ana to bear when Tony was younger and still begged not to be punished as his father took him into his study. He was far more resigned to his lot now, not protesting, yet still resisting the hold on his arm. 

Ana felt she had abandoned him when the study door closed. So, she would wait in airless suspension, hearing everything, until he slunk from the room, cowed and sullen and marred by teartracks. He always glared at her, embarrassed and desiring to be alone. But, even if he seemingly hated to see her there, she wanted him to know that he would not be forsaken, no matter what.

Often, if she were present for the transgression, she could convince Howard to let her, as his nurse or governess, handle Tony’s discipline. Then, she would take the boy to the nursery or outside and they would speak about expectations as the Stark family heir and what constituted appropriate behavior. Then, if Ana felt Tony needed help remembering the rule, they discussed a consequence that made sense to them both. It was usually something like thinking of three alternate responses to a rude reply he’d given; or, he would take an enforced respite from his tinkering if he’d neglected other duties.

However, if Tony struck the right nerve in Howard with his actions or words, his father couldn’t be dissuaded from taking his son to the study.

Yet _this_ — Ana agonized as she waited for Tony to wake— this was different. Even when he was as young as six, Tony never sought comfort after punishment. He preferred to hide in the attic with his metal soldiers until he could reappear and pretend nothing had happened. This was the first time he came to them; and, Ana nearly cried to think he’d lain on the floor, not daring to approach them when he was so hurt and frightened.

Jarvis was disturbed as well. He had met her gaze in the dark. They hadn’t spoken, too worried that they’d wake the little mister. As soon as the morning light was strong enough, Jarvis opened the curtains and Ana lifted the fabric of Tony’s night shirt, revealing his back.

She forced her eyes closed and felt her husband cover the boy again in warm blankets. The child shuddered but slept on, whining once. When she opened her eyes again, she saw Jarvis sitting next to her, his hand on Tony’s shoulder, as if anchoring the child in sleep. She had no breath; all she could do to communicate her intense, unspeakable feelings, was frantically shake her head, look away, look back at her husband, shaking her chin as though she were an earthquake in human form. Jarvis answered lowly, “I know.”

They moved to the other side of the room, behind a dressing screen to discuss their course. 

“Has he ever done this to the child before?” Ana whispered through trembling jaws to her husband. She felt fierce, her fighter’s instinct and maternal instinct roiling together as one tremendous and dark storm in her gut.

Jarvis breathed through his nose. “No.”

“Edwin,” Ana said. “I know the child has been punished beyond what I considered age appropriate before, but,” — she hissed— “this is...”

“I will speak to Mr. Stark.” Jarvis said firmly. 

“This is not discipline.” She couldn’t stop. Her spirit was riled and charging against its restraints. “I don’t care what the boy said or did to anger him. It’s wrong!”

Jarvis nodded and brushed a thumb against her eyes, drying tears. Though he was not so verbal with his outrage, she saw him quiver. “If you can trust me to address it with Mr. Stark, I would ask you to keep Tony comforted in the meanwhile.”

Ana chewed her bottom lip. She said, “First, could you retrieve a bottle of salve and some breakfast? I don’t wish any of the staff to find him here. No need to inflame Mrs. Stark as well. You’ll never be heard then.”

Jarvis dressed and did as she asked. He passed a hand over Tony’s hair, hardly touching him, then left for Howard’s office. Ana sat in the wingback chair and kept a vigil. Soon it would be seven o’clock, when the little mister always waked. She would tend to him then, to the prickly hot belt-lashes down his lower back and thighs, tend to the blue bruises of a hand that was clamped on the back of his neck, undoubtedly holding him down, and she would feed him the breakfast waiting on the tray. But, how she could tend to his heart, she did not know. She only could try.

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

Peter opened the door to Mr. Hogan—Happy— standing on their stoop. His expression was stoic as ever, but Peter noticed a wrinkle under each eye that made him appear even more haggard. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hogan! Did I misunderstand Mr. Stark’s intentions about our outing? Am I still to go meet him?” He asked, all in one breath.

“Peter, _bambino_ , don’t make the man stand in the doorway,” May said from the hallway. She appeared and spoke to Happy. “Come in, sir!”

Happy reluctantly entered, removing his snow-dusted hat. “Pardon the intrusion.” He said to May. Then, he turned his attention to Peter. “Mr. Stark sent me to deliver this message.” Then he added to himself grumpily, “instead of a _messenger_ ” before speaking up again. “He regrettably was unable to meet you today. Nor did he present his lecture at the university, due to unfortunate circumstances.”

Peter’s heart bucked. “Is he okay?”

Mr. Hogan appeared annoyed. Perhaps he felt that it wasn’t Peter’s place to ask about the household’s affairs. Still, he answered. “Mr. Stark is well, but he will be staying in Long Island for an indeterminate time.” With this, his voice seemed to strain.

Anxious curiosity bubbled in Peter. He didn’t want to irritate Happy further, but many awful possibilities were percolating in his imagination. May must have guessed at her nephew’s distress. She pressed Happy in a courteous tone: “I don’t mean to pry, but, could we ask what’s caused Mr. Stark to stay away from his home?”

Happy melted a little. Peter noted the changed expression whenever Happy glanced at his aunt. “I believe Mrs. Stark means to speak with you herself, but,” he said, “Mr. Jarvis has fallen quite ill.”

May covered her collarbone with a hand. Peter felt his brow contract. “ _O porvero!_ ” May whispered. “That dear man...”

“Is there anything I can do?” Peter asked with eager, innocent eyes.

Happy regarded him more compassionately this time. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“Will Mr. Jarvis get better?”

The stiffness returned to Happy’s voice. “I don’t believe it’s my place to say more than I was instructed.” He glanced at May, looking for support, and back to Peter.

“Why is Mr. Stark going to Long Island if Mr. Jarvis is sick?” Peter asked, not relenting. May placed a hand on his shoulder; he read her expression and quieted.

Happy drew a breath that seemed to indicate this was the last he would say on the subject. “Mr. Stark is taking Mr. Jarvis home.”

  
  
  


_September, 1868_

Tony snapped another of his pencils in half. The sound was sorrowful, wasteful, and Ana was beginning to lose her patience. All he’d done the past hour was sulk at the writing desk. Now he drew pencils one by one from the box, and snapped them until the pieces were so small his fingers couldn’t apply enough pressure to a single break point.

When the first one cracked, Ana was so unsettled by the act, she didn’t address it at all. The boy just sat at the desk, staring at the splintered halves in his hands. His mood had turned volatile ever since they had returned to New York. When the next pencil broke, she remarked lowly, “I daresay you have plenty of work on that desk to occupy you without seeking other entertainments, Little Mister.”

Tony’s eyes turned to her. Keeping that languid gaze locked with hers, he split the pencil again. Ana bristled.

After Jarvis had spoken to Howard about the cruel treatment of his son, there had been no other such incidents; Jarvis and Ana had kept _close_ watch. She didn’t know what her husband had said to Howard, but she was often impressed by his skill in telling superiors what they did not wish to hear in a manner that they accepted nonetheless. (This was not her gift.) Plus, Howard truly respected Jarvis because of his diligence and effective service. He was more a confidant and steward of the household than a butler.

Nevertheless, even without further evidence of abuse, there had been many nights when Ana lie sleepless, painstakingly listening for sounds of violence. “Edwin,” she would whisper.

“I’m awake, if you’re inquiring.” He answered. He turned toward her and caressed her cheek.

“He would come here if he needed me, right?” She gasped. “He’s not somewhere… alone…”

Mercifully, her husband understood. “I will go check on him, if you wish, beloved.”

She frowned. “No, I will go and return directly.” Then she slipped from bed, dressed in her robe and slippers, and took a candle into the foreboding hallway of the mansion. Tony would always be in his bed, asleep— or, disassembling some contraption in an insomniac burst of passion, but otherwise unburdened, _unharmed_.

“Those are your supplies for completing your work.” Ana reprimanded as reservedly as she could. “If you break them into such difficult sizes, you will still need to use them to write.”

Tony rolled his eyes. He hunched over and tossed the pieces onto the desk. “Not as though I can’t buy more.”

“You will use them, as I’ve said.” She reiterated firmly. “Only when they’re gone, will I order more.” To this, he huffed loudly. “What’s bothering you, Little Mister—?“

“Do not call me that!” Tony snapped. After a few harsh breaths, he jumped from his seat and paced the room.

Ana regarded him with surprise before folding her arms. She leaned back and gave him her attention. However her expression made it clear that his behavior was not well-received.

“That’s not a proper way for _you_ to address me.” He continued, his face a shade more _pained_ than angry. His volume steadily increased with each word. “And I’m not a child in need of a _nurse._ ”

“You’re right,” she said. “Not about being a child; I believe that you’ll discover that eleven years is not sufficient experience to be considered an adult— as _you’ve proven_ just now.” She gritted her teeth, struggling to keep her breathing calm. Regret was already forming in her; her last statement had only further provoked him. He stood coiled like a viper. “But I _don’t_ address you properly. Now, tell me, is something bothering you, Mister Anthony?”

The sound of his given name flicked him like a whip. This was how Maria addressed him with disapproval. Not Ana. Never Ana, who spent her time with him, who built with him, who held him. He lurched away from her. 

“You don’t do _anything_ properly! You wear sports pants out in the field where all can see you, you _box_ , you build things and get dirty, you don’t teach proper lessons—“ Here he sobbed tearlessly. “With lots of memorization and drills.”

“Boring for the both of us…”

“You’re not _preparing me_ for when I go away to the academy!”

Ana listened to his breath hitch. She wanted to reach out for him, but refrained. He was too skittish and upset; it would be like removing an iron pot from the fire, holding its handle, unprotected. “I take it Madam has discussed your educational career with you recently?” 

He turned his glare to the wall when he saw her empathetic eyes. 

“Well, Mister Anthony, _I think_ that once you see all that there is beyond the walls of Stark Mansion, you will feel quite freer and happier at the academy.”

For several moments he stared at her, aghast, perhaps betrayed. He ground his jaw and flared his nostrils. She noticed his fists clench, a habit he’d picked up recently, but she decided not to acknowledge it.

Breaking the silence, she instructed: “If you’re finished with our conversation, I would have you complete your calculations, Mr. Anthony.”

Tony stalked to the desk and she retreated to the window. The air was thick, reverberating their stress. Ana unlatched the window frame and pushed it open. No relief poured in, however— only a sickly warm breeze entered as she rubbed her temples.

 _What mercy is out there?_ She wondered. _That can restore this household?_

  
  
  


_June, 1868_

After discovering Tony‘s injuries, after Jarvis had spoken to Howard, Ana had kept Tony out of the house all day, swimming in the cool pond away from the grounds. She promised no one would bother them, (no one would see him.) The water soothed Tony and he only climbed out when Ana instructed, to avoid sunburn.

That night, when Tony was secured in his own room, Jarvis met Ana there and revealed more information on the events leading up to Howard punishing Tony the way he had. To no surprise, Howard was drunk. Ana shook in her rage. 

“There’s more,” Jarvis said. “Sir suspects his business partner, Mr. Vanko, of trying to usurp Stark Industries. That’s why Mr. Stane and Mr. Richards were here. We will return to New York straightaway, within the week.”

Ana had frozen for a heartbeat. She wondered if Tony knew they were leaving Canada so abruptly. Losing his friend had been an inevitability looming in his mind for a while. This would be difficult.

She recovered, then bit out: “What has that to do with the little mister?”

Jarvis explained that Howard’s temper was looking for a release anyway. “Then, it seems that Madam mentioned the young sir arriving to the mansion in an embarrassing state—“

“He was playing!” Ana nearly shouted. “He was playing with the very first friend I’ve known him to have!”

“Another factor in this, I’m afraid.” Jarvis’s tone dipped ever so slightly into heartbreak. “Is Master Potts himself. After dinner, Mr. Stane inquired after the young sir and was regaled with tales of their play. It struck his father wrong in some way. He mocked the boy in front of the young sir and it escalated from there.”

Ana thought she understood and didn’t ask for more.

No, there had not been another incident in the following months; instead, Tony and Howard began to bait each other. Tony was rightfully hurt and furious; he looked at his father now not as an impassable structure he must climb but as an obstruction he must demolish. Howard, still irascible over the threat of his power in Stark Industries, compensated by enforcing stricter control over his son.

The tension in the house spared no one, not even the lowest ranking servant was unaffected.

Tony’s hostility toward his father manifested as challenges to his authority over the slightest rule. Once Howard began to roar, Tony would rise to meet him. Jarvis bore the brunt of the backlash, being present during the times father and son were together. 

Jarvis had taken the role of removing Tony from the room when Howard began to ramp up. He told Ana, “The young sir incites his father and refuses mediations from his mother or myself. And Sir becomes increasingly difficult to divert.” 

Ana told him that she’d noticed Tony brooding more often and the child had taken to biting himself. When Jarvis inquired, Ana explained: “He sits curled up with his hands or arms tightly hidden against his mouth. When I am able to coax him to unfurl himself, he has mean little bite marks in the skin of his arm or fingers.”

“He needs an outlet,” Jarvis had responded after a pause. “What would you think about increasing his time for sports?”

Ana sighed. She was watching all of Tony’s growth and progress stagnate. Worse— she saw the brilliant, sensitive, and confident boy she loved drying up, deoxygenated, turned to ash. “If I can build his interest in it. He’s become so dispossessed.”

  
  
  


_September, 1868_

Tony toppled the writing desk and all its contents exploded across the floor. The clamor was like that of a cannon. Ana confronted him in shock, then anger began to leak into her face. He dared her with his gaze to act, jaw quivering violently. When a maid entered the room, drawn by the racket, Ana snapped: “Leave— now!”

Tony didn’t react to the fleeing maid. He twitched with exhilaration and— _curiosity_. He seemed to both confront and guard against her. This, she realized was a challenge directed only at her.

No longer mastering her indignation, Ana hissed. “ _What_ has _gotten into_ you?” The words were quiet but forceful.

Satisfaction replaced curiosity and Ana drew an enormous breath. This was some kind of test— but what he meant to accomplish she could _not_ _comprehend_. She felt tears press under her eyes but stifled them with righteous rage. Squaring her feet, she raised her eyebrows, prompting an answer.

“You,” Tony sputtered, “you _preach at me_ about expectations”— he gulped— “that I must abide— yet— yet you— openly defy any sense of decorum!”

Ana patiently interrupted. “I am not shouting at you, Mister Anthony, so do not raise your voice at me—“

“Stop calling me that!” Tony screamed.

“What should I call you, Tony?” She asked with genuine respect, although irritated, and her quietness crushed him.

“You have no right.” He was unraveling; Ana watched closely but did not approach. She wondered if his experiment was failing. “You do whatever you wish yet I must perform every way everyone expects me to even when they aren’t around—! Why?”

“Little one,” Ana said in a sigh.

“Do not talk to me that way!” He kicked up the papers where he was calculating the ratio on Ana’s scaled drawing of the Triumphal Arch of Vac. Rearing back, he clenched his fists again. “Why, I asked! Why?” 

Then a cough guttered through him; he choked. “Because you don’t matter.” He paused when she flinched. “You’re just the immigrant wife of our butler and it doesn’t matter _what_ _you_ do.”

“Very well,” she replied. Warring to keep the song of weeping from her voice, she said: “Very well if that’s what you believe. Nevertheless, you are my pupil for now and I’d have you right that desk and finish your calculations, as you were told.”

Seizing this moment, Tony flung out the phrase he’d been preparing. “You cannot order me around and you are not big enough to _make_ me.”

Ana saw the apprehensive curiosity flash through him again and her chest loosened. Here was the boundary challenged at last! This was the hypothesis tested by this experiment.

“Oh, hell!” She exclaimed and Tony stumbled back, eyes agog. _This silly fool_ , she thought. _All that trouble for_ this _?_

 _  
_“Is that what this is about?” She massaged her closed eyelids, exasperated.

“You cursed!” He muttered stupidly.

“Yes,” she piped and dropped her hand, “I did. Come here.”

Tony stood immobile, his arms crooked like a frightened pup. He collapsed into his shoulders and nearly took a step back. Ana hated to see him in such a submissive and mistrustful stance. Still, she did not soften her voice. Not yet.

“Come here, now.” This she spoke with widened eyes, demanding to be taken seriously.

Blinking, grimacing, he moved forward until he stood before her. He glowered at the floor in a marriage of resignation and defiance. His fists clenched and unclenched. Fear, shame— both rattled in his chest.

“Look at me, please,” she said. “I would want you to have the respect for us both to look me in the eye.” Haltingly, he shifted his glare upwards. Red rims betrayed the threatening emotion in him. She saw hopelessness and it constricted her heart. She took his hands, ignoring how he jolted. 

“Look at me.” She repeated, for his face had dropped again when she touched him. When he complied, she asked: “What is my job, Little Mister?”

Tony’s lips parted in a silent cry. He swallowed weakly… Shook his head.

“What is my job?” She pulled gently at his hands. “Do you remember what I said?”

He nodded and the lenses of tears broke; they ran down his face. His face didn’t lift the last time.

“Tell me, then.” Ana commanded. She tapped his chin then gently lifted it when he refused.

“T—to,”— his tortured sobs straggled the words. But, she waited, grasping his hands to hold his attention. She’d never seen him act out this way with her, so she was determined to see this through, despite his distress. “To lo—love m-me.” The effort weakened his control and he sobbed bitterly.

“Yes.” She licked her lips and let him cry a moment, not wishing to unduly overwhelm him. When his breathing no longer shuddered, she said, “Look at me, Tony. One last time. Look at me, now.”

He barely managed but tried to obey.

“I,” — she girded each word with passion and love— “will _never_ strike you. Never!” She let a tremor pass through her and into his hands, still clasped between hers.

Tony bit his lip.

“I will do my job.” She choked on her own emotion now that her declaration had made its impression. “Do you hear me? No matter what anyone, _including you_ ,” — she stroked his hair— “might do.”

He hung by some unseeable thread, certainly, there was nothing left in him that could have kept him upright.

She gasped then muttered: “And _for heaven’s sake,_ you little fool…” She drew him into her embrace, taking most of his weight against her. “There are better ways to determine the veracity of that statement!”

Tony covered his face with his hands, pressing into her. They sealed in his cries. Shushing softly, Ana rubbed his back. Tony’s knees sank every so often and, eventually, she led him to a bench nearby. They sat together side by side and she rocked him in her arms.

“I’ll do my job,” he whimpered. “I will!”

Though his mouth was covered and his voice unrecognizable, Ana discerned his statement. “I know.” She closed her eyes, sweeping them clean of dwindling tears. “My Little Mister...”

Time lost grip on them. Tony only looked up when the door’s latch clicked. To his horror, he saw Jarvis standing in the door. He must have been alerted by the frightened maid. After surveying the scene, he closed the door behind him. Then he saw how Tony cowered from him and he sat in a chair on the other side of the room to lessen his the intimidation of his presence.

The three of them took many tense minutes to settle. Then, Tony wordlessly stood and set the desk upright. He picked up the scattered papers and fractured pencils. Ana gestured for Jarvis, who nearly stood to assist him, to allow Tony to clean without comment.

Tony came and stood humbly before her when he was finished. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ana.” She reached out and touched his cheek.

“Don’t think about it anymore, dear.” She said and Tony’s jaw softened at the term of affection. He peeked at Jarvis to judge his reaction but only found a surprise that was somehow also pleased. She continued. “It’s done now, and I’ve already told you the consequence.”

“It’s awfully difficult to write with such short pencils,” Tony remarked with a twist of his lips.

“It’s too late to think about that, Little Mister. I’m sure you’ll remember in the future.”

Smirking, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“May I tell you something I’ve been thinking about?” Ana asked. Turning to Jarvis, she called: “Come join us, Edwin; this concerns you, too.”

Jarvis stood and took a seat by her on the bench, leaving a space for Tony to sit between them. Tony hesitated, but sat and willed his muscles to loosen, enveloped by the Jarvises’ calm presence.

“I debated telling you this, but,” she said with a chuckle, “I worry more that you won’t ever realize how much I truly love you if I don’t.”

Tony went rigid. The nondescript sound in his ears seemed to swell until he couldn’t hear. He fought his rushing blood back down. “What is it?”

Ana didn’t answer for a long moment. She spaced her breaths; Tony listened to them, nearly lulled to sleep. He always felt exhausted after an outburst.

Finally, she said, “I think my name should have been Hannah.” She grinned almost reproachfully at herself. “Do you know the story of Hannah? Who prayed for a child and when he was born, he lived away from her, at the temple?”

Tony didn’t know that story, but he felt his stomach burn at its implications.

Jarvis reached over Tony and laid his hand on Ana’s shoulder. Tony inhaled the sense of security created by Jarvis’s strong arm behind him. He caught himself just before leaning into the butler’s side.

“I’ve begun to think that I am like that woman. That the child Heaven gave me… lives just beyond my reach.” Ana bit her lip.

“I thought,” Tony murmured, “you didn’t want children.”

Ana laughed and Tony saw the glistening beneath her soil-like eyes. “Not until _you._ ”

Tony didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t speak. Jarvis didn’t speak. Neither did Ana.

However, they drew closer together. Ana wrapped her arm around Tony’s back. Jarvis kept his hand on Ana’s shoulder. They both took one of Tony’s hands.

When he felt Jarvis hold his hand, Tony risked lying against the man’s side. He’d never been held by his father, never by any older man. He felt the barrellike form of Jarvis’s chest under his cheek. The sensation was similar to yet unique from the way Ana felt when she held him. Both embraces protected him, but each relieved a very different memory of rejection.

Jarvis felt the child against him and looked at his wife. She had just revealed to Tony that she thought of him as her son. She was not his mother, but it didn’t matter. They weren’t given each other by the right of bloodlines or the law. But they found each other; they belonged together, despite everything. 

Now Tony had invited Jarvis into this familial pact they shared. Ana smiled and nodded to him like a cue. With his thumb, Jarvis brushed Tony’s hand, with its mauve tooth-prints. “We’re here, young sir.” He said.


	6. One Taste of Sorrow, One Taste of Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jarvis’s health is failing. While Peter waits helplessly at his home, Tony has taken Jarvis back to the cottage in Long Island to spend his last hours.
> 
> The cottage is more than Jarvis’s home, however. It was Ana’s. And, in many ways, it was Tony’s. It was the beginning and ending of many important paths in his life.
> 
> This chapter highlights the far-reaching power of father-child bonds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: a scene of inappropriate child discipline, child abuse, homophobic language, and panic attacks.
> 
> Thank you all for your grace and readership!

_ September, 1868 _

Ana dressed Tony for town and took him to the telegraph station in Huntington. Even though there were far fewer pedestrians bustling through the streets than there were in the commercial parts of the city, where the Stark Industries skyscraper was, Tony pressed close to her skirts. She hid an amused smile until she felt his small hand slip into her palm. Then she softened and held his hand reassuringly, reminded how truly isolated the boy was. He held her hand until it was time to write his telegram message on the little card for the operator.

-

VIRGINIANA TERRACE, T.O., O.N.. SEPT 10 1868

SAMUEL POTTS

MRS ANA SAID I SHOULD WRITE YOU. WILL START RIGHT AWAY. WATCH FOR MY LETTERS. SEND REPLY. TONY STARK

-

When he had been given the receipt slip for his $7.46, they left the telegraph station and he seemed a little more confident. It was as though this were a milestone for him in the road to adulthood. Ana made a mental note to plan more town excursions for him. It was even more crucial since he would begin boarding at the academy in less than two years.

The reply came a few days later.

-

STARK MANSION, HUNTINGTON, N.Y., U.S.A. SEPT 14 1868

ANTHONY “TONY” STARK

PLEASED AS PUNCH TO RECEIVE YOUR TELEGRAM. EAGERLY LOOKING FORWARD TO YOUR LETTERS WITH ALL MY HEART. SHALL WRITE YOU TOO. YOURS SAMUEL POTTS

-

Tony read the telegram and nodded, shoving down a grin. “That’s nice.” He said and laid the card on his desk. “I suppose I had better write him a letter soon since he’s expecting it so eagerly…”

Ana scoffed to herself and left the room, so he could write his letter to Samuel without embarrassment.

  
  
  


_ January, 1903 _

Peter laid out a test tile for each of the 200 glaze recipe variants he’d created to produce the peach bloom effect. When he’d finished, they formed a long road through the kitchen. May had nearly scattered them when she scurried in for a quick bite before heading to the Thompson mansion. “My!” She exclaimed but didn’t pause long enough for any further comment.

His favorites were the recent mixtures, he confirmed, after scanning the tiles. The mixtures with higher amounts of tin oxide… He remembered Tony’s proud expression and he momentarily felt his enthusiasm wrung out. He missed Tony.

Stubbornly, he shook the feeling and selected two tiles to compare. Then he flipped through the leaves of his notebook. The sound of the crinkled pages fluttering was both sweet and nervous. Peter found the recipe for the first tile and dog-eared the page. He began to search for the second recipe when he heard a knock at the front door.

The knock was insistent, as though the knocker had already tried once. Peter leapt up and ran to the door, not admitting to himself that his heart was thumping wildly with hope. Flinging it open, his face brightened and his tongue leapt without thinking. “Pepper!”

Pepper’s eyes, inflamed with dried tears, widened in delighted surprise.

Peter fumbled— “I—Mrs. Stark! I apologize—“

She quickly shook her head. “No, don’t correct it. That’s given me more joy than I’ve felt all week. Thank you!”

Trembling a little with happiness, Peter said, “Please come in! I will put on water for coffee…”

Pepper stepped inside. “I’m sorry to intrude suddenly. I wasn’t sure when I’d be able to arrive.”

“Not at all, ma’am! I’ve missed you.” Peter said, then blushed. She gave his hand a warm squeeze. He schooled his nerves to quiet. “Is Happy here? He’s welcome to come in.”

“Thank you, dear, but he’s gone ahead with Col. Rhodes. I will be retrieved by Harley with the other carriage in a little while.”

“Col. Rhodes?” Peter asked with a smile. Then he let it fall, realizing that he shouldn’t be smiling. Everyone was worried for Mr. Jarvis; this was no time to act like a puppy, jumping for attention.

“Yes,” she said. “He’s delivering some things to Tony’s childhood estate. Jarvis and his wife had a cottage there for many years. Tony’s kept it up up for him.” Somberness draped over her and Peter quietly offered to take her coat.

“Is it Mr. Jarvis?” Peter asked, meaning the reason for her visit, the reason for her sorrow.

Pepper nodded. She looked through the hallway with a slow sigh and Peter realized she had never been to his house before. He was glad that so much of his time recently had been devoted to cleaning. Pepper, however, wasn’t really looking with eyes that see dusted mouldings. Her eyes only moved to keep her from receding into her mind. “May we sit and talk, Peter, dear?”

  
  
  


_ January, 1869 _

Jarvis was beginning to understand that winter had driven them into a snare. The greatest risks were not the ice or chill outdoors, but the slowdown of Howard’s work world, the holidays with many dinner parties at which to politick, the influx of alcohol in the house, and the decrease of travel or outdoor play. The mansion was a trap with too many animals inside. If only one or two could be spared!

Father and son had more occasion to confront each other. Father and mother had more occasion to be aware of each other. Mother and son had more occasion to reject one another.

Jarvis’s job as Tony’s guard became doubly difficult— especially on Saturdays, which were Ana’s days off. She’d often check in, of course, between errands and projects; she never could leave her Tony alone too long, bless her. 

However, she needed time to rejuvenate, too, Jarvis understood. And, he had many duties to oversee, both in the house and as personal assistant to Howard when he conducted business in his office. Tony had to mind himself. Jarvis prayed he would.

One afternoon, he heard the hellish tone of rage ring out from the hall. As his quickened stride brought him closer, Howard’s words became discernible. “Whose provision affords you to act like a  _ fairy _ prince all damn day? Or your mother to run off to her  _ French ladies _ ? Huh?”

Jarvis entered the hall. Tony was pinched between the wall and Howard’s shoulders. Howard was impressing his height on the boy. Tony glared at the ground, face averted, caught between shrinking and rearing up to meet the oppressive figure of his father. His hands were clenched— Jarvis saw the white knuckles quiver from where he was.

“What’s this, huh, boy?” Howard broke off his tirade and jabbed at Tony’s fist. Sharp nasal inhalations were all the answer Tony could allow himself. “You want to hit me?” Howard boomed. “Do you? You mewling brat, you love to playact a man. Go on then—“

“Sir,” Jarvis said, but was not heard. He noticed a couple maids and a footman pressed against the staircase; undoubtedly they’d not been dismissed when the row started. Each looked pleadingly at Jarvis, their jaws as atremble as Tony’s. At the sound of a slap and Tony’s soft cry, Jarvis blanched and quickly signaled them to leave. He strode forward.

Tony seethed, his cheek pink. “Can you even talk of being a man?” He gritted. “Even your business partners step over you.”

Howard snatched Tony’s upper arm, and the boy winced, a grin of pain splitting his face. “Boy, you’d better turn down your tail unless you want me to  _ do it for you _ .” There was a gravelly, low tone to the threat that caused Jarvis to reach out for Howard’s shoulder.

“Sir,” he attempted, “I would strongly advise—”

“Like Vanko did to you?”

Tony’s retort shattered Howard’s remaining sense of restraint. He tore his son around by the shoulder so that his cheek was pinned against the wall. “You cannot speak to me that way!” Howard roared. He wrench one of Tony’s arms behind his back. Then he regarded Jarvis as though the butler just arrived. “J, fetch me a strap!”

Tony didn’t cry but began to growl with exertion, trying to jerk free from Howard’s grasp. But, Howard twisted his arm; he gasped. If he’d had the faculty to speak, to further malign his father, Jarvis knew he would.

“No, Sir.” Jarvis replied. “And you should let go of the young master.”

Howard’s eyes flashed but he didn’t react otherwise.

“I do not believe that you are in proper control of yourself to discipline him, Sir.” Jarvis said.

Howard defended himself. “Did you hear how this little wretch spoke to me, and  _ in front of my staff _ ? Am I not master of my own house?”

“Certainly, Sir.” Jarvis replied evenly. “You’ve been injured by Mister Anthony; however, should you punish him in such fury, I fear you will do more damage than you know you should.”

“Goddamn it, Jarvis!” Howard screamed. He took a moment to stare at his butler and confidant, his nostrils flaring and hot. “I am the boy’s  _ father _ ! I decide how to  _ deal _ with his behavior.”

Jarvis imperturbably met the gaze. After Howard had mastered more of his breath, Jarvis subtly reminded him of their conversation months ago. “I cannot allow you to exceed what is appropriate discipline for the young sir.”

Howard sneered, sucked both lips between his teeth, then whirled toward his son and landed several hard swats on the boy’s backside with his open hand until Tony’s knees gave. Then he released the child and confronted Jarvis again. “Do you deem that appropriate, J?” He spat tersely.

Jarvis watched him silently as he stalked upstairs, then turned to help Tony stand, but Tony was already bolting from the hall, out of the main door, and into the blistering wind.

  
  
  


Jarvis could hear the pummeling of body against the punching bag as he approached his home. The noise bled through the walls of the cottage and ran through the thin winter air. Jarvis had taken time to retrieve Tony’s winter coat, gloves, and ear muffs. He worried about the frigid wind slicing across the boy’s unprotected ears and fingers. Fortunately, the cottage was not too far.

Pushing open the door, he found Ana in the kitchen. She paused from rubbing the table with linseed oil and wax and rose to look at him. Their deflated expressions might have matched but for an expectant, questioning lift to her eyebrows. 

The sounds of impact, the grunts, the creak of the punching bag’s chain as it was jostled, and the scuffles of feet clamored up from beneath the floorboards.

Ana crossed her arms and nodded her head toward the floor. In answer, Jarvis sighed. She said, “He crashed in here, unable to speak, shaking like a drowned cat. He started to bite his thumb knuckle rather meanly—“ she swallowed her emotion. “I told him to use the bag downstairs, that’s what it’s for  _ and _ less dear than his poor hand.” She trailed off and they listened to Tony’s primal shrieks and punches.

“He’ll exhaust himself that way.” Ana remarked after a moment. “Striking out with no form, no healthy breathing…” Then she looked at her husband again.

They were sharing an idea— one that could prove to have difficult consequences. It was like mixing dangerous chemicals, yet, if the formula was successful, the risks might pay off. Jarvis spoke it first. “Would you consider it a wise outlet for him, my love?”

Ana huffed and they heard a lull in the onslaught downstairs. Then, muffled sobs. She said, “I had hoped that  _ building _ could be his outlet. Inventing! He’s so brilliant. But…” She let the air take her words. Downstairs, the beating resumed.

“Sir dared him,  _ taunted _ him.” Jarvis said. The rare swell of anger in his voice may have escaped most, but not Ana.

“All of his control is being stolen.” She chewed her lip. “He wants so desperately not to feel powerless. I had hoped to build his confidence through excursions into town. But, his father is so damn  _ persistent _ in cowing him.” She hissed. “Any self-assurance he gains is extinguished directly.”

Jarvis let his fingers drum in the air, as if on piano keys. This was his one telltale. It was his anxiety releasing. Ana loved him for it. Such a gentle gesture.

“If he employed this skill to—“

“Clock his father in the snout?” Ana finished for him, a pointedly unconcerned lilt in her tone. She composed herself and crossed her arms. “Or anyone else...”

Tony took another break, and this time hacking breaths followed in the silence. Jarvis’s gut twinged in pity. He hoped Tony did not drive his little stomach to vomit. He needed a sense of self-Preservation. Restraint. Control. Discipline—  _ self _ -discipline. Confidence.

“I would have  _ you _ teach him,” Ana said.

The declaration surprised him. “I’m not against it, though, may I inquire to your reasoning, beloved?” He asked. Jarvis had assumed it would become part of Tony’s schooling, something they planned into their regiment of History, Arithmetic, and Rhetoric.

“Two reasons,” Ana said. “If I were to be his instructor, he would nag me to train him all day and we’d never get through our academic lessons! Workouts must have a consistent, structured time, and that will be easiest to accomplish with your schedule.

“Secondly,” she said and softened. “I think it would go a long way to amend some of the very reasons he’s down there if he had a positive relationship with an older male.”

Jarvis met her gaze for a long while. He knew this was his call to action. To join in her work. 

Children were not, never had been, his area of expertise. Though he could care for their basic needs, and he did love Tony as his own son, to be trusted with his emotions… to be relied upon by such a small person…  _ terrified _ him. Ana had joked with him about never having been a child; however, that was not the issue.

Jarvis irrepressibly recalled the feelings of childhood. He had been a child much like Tony. Growing up, he’d been trapped between fear and longing for affection. The world he’d known was rigid; it was the mirror companion of Tony’s world. 

Class tensions fed into his domestic life. Both of his parents tended to take out the insecurities, caused by their low social standing, on each other or on him. The military was his salvation, both in leaving his situation and in learning to channel his emotions into something  _ productive _ . Now he was a man, except when beside a child. Then he felt just as vulnerable and dependent, fearing he was powerless to satisfy the trust in their eyes.

Still, if Ana believed in him, and the young sir needed him, he would rise up to the call.

  
  
  


In the chalky light of the basement, Tony lashed his arms wildly against the bag. It absorbed each hit as though Tony had no strength at all. Reckless despair wracked his body. He was hysterical, needing control, drowning, directionless, exhausted, his nerves as raw as his throat. He flailed with fists and elbows until his wrists were limply flapping against the giant leather weight.

Jarvis’s soft footsteps on the stairs were lost amid the din. He watched Tony stumble back, the boy’s breath like claw marks in the air. Jarvis’s features resembled his knotted heart. He walked to the boy.

Exhilaration colored Tony’s cheeks a violet red against which the teartracks glowed. He slumped against the bag. It’s cool surface was the first instance of comfort he’d felt since his father’s voice turned harsh. Since he’d called Tony those names, names Tony barely understood. All he knew was that Howard hated him. He  _ hated _ Tony. For all the ways he failed to measure up to his father’s expectations.

A choked sound emerged from his throat. It incited Tony to spring up again, knocking his arms against the leather body, despite the nauseated exhaustion pulsing through him. He was all fumes. He would have rather traded places with the bag. At least he could have felt strong while being beaten.

Then, he felt Jarvis’s wide hands close around each of his own. Tony looked up sharply. The man sank to his heels and looked Tony in the face. Tony fought to free himself until Jarvis’s voice halted him.

“If I instruct you in boxing,” Jarvis said, “your fist will  _ only _ strike this bag.” Eyes intent, he commanded Tony’s gaze. His voice was stronger than Tony had ever heard it, but not threatening. It was more like a pact was being made. “Are we at an understanding?”

Realization bloomed in Tony’s eyes. He nodded. The adrenaline that had thrashed Tony nearly senseless was replaced by fascinated anticipation.

Jarvis stood and stepped behind him, adjusting his stance with gentle firmness. “Plant your feet, here, slightly exceeding shoulder width.” Jarvis murmured. He tapped Tony’s heels with his toe and the boy tried to obey, sliding his feet according to where he thought Jarvis had described. “Left toe forward, right heel back.” Jarvis kept his directions concise, speaking lowly, trustingly. “Keep your weight evenly distributed.

“Good. Knees should be loose. Never lock them.” Jarvis continued. Tony felt Jarvis’s own, muscular knee softly prod his. He bent them a little. “Unless you feel inclined to nap at the foot of your opponent. Blood flow cannot be shirked.

“Now.” Jarvis closed his hands over Tony’s again. He used his arm as a model, bending the elbows, and drawing them close to his sides, guiding Tony’s to follow. Tony remained limber, allowing Jarvis to mold his form. “Elbows down, fists up. The left protects your face.”

Tony’s heart fluttered when his fists were positioned in front of him. He  _ felt _ like a boxer. Jarvis used his left hand to pat Tony’s shoulders. “The force of the strike should come from your hip, not your shoulders. Keep them straight.” Then, his hand once again enveloped Tony’s left.

“Always start with a relaxed body.” 

Jarvis waited. He waited and Tony waited. Slowly, Tony realized that Jarvis’s muscles were at complete ease. However, his own were tight as a wrung rag; he endeavored to undo them, but didn’t know how.

Jarvis noticed his mounting distress and suggested he close his eyes and focus on the quietest sounds he could hear. “Release the tension in your toes. Now your ankles. Your calves... and knees...” 

Tony felt himself unfurling. He was aware of the warmth from Jarvis’s torso. The arms that braced him relieved his doubts. He heard Ana’s footsteps above them, the sound of the radiator, and finally his own breathing, by now nearly peaceful.

When Tony had melted into a relaxed position, Jarvis said, “Inhale, strongly, through the nose.” Slowly, he revolved them at the waist, drawing back, and dragging his foot. Tony replicated his movements eagerly. Then he pivoted them forward, extending their right arms toward the bag. “Exhale when you throw the punch. Do this every time, young sir— never hold your breath!”

Tony narrowed his mind, completely aware of his breathing.

“Tighten your fist at impact and, immediately, relax as you withdraw. Always return to this position: elbows down, hands up.”

He walked through the actions again, a little faster, but demonstrating instead of narrating. In the absence of words, Tony realized that the way Jarvis has been speaking to him was unprecedented— no needlessly eloquent or passive phrases. It emphasized the quiet strength and confidentiality that always warmed Jarvis’s tone with him. The voice, along with the man’s arms, girded Tony like armor. He gave into the protection offered to him.

The third time he repeated the pivot, Jarvis unleashed a spurt of force. It reverberated down his arm and met the bag with a bang. Tony gaped. He’d felt it, the  _ power _ traveling through Jarvis’s arm, tremendous to his child’s perception, yet harnessed and directed.

Jarvis let go and encouraged him to repeat the punch on his own. Tony did his best, knowing he hadn’t performed the action exactly, yet he still received Jarvis’s praise:

“I see you’ve remembered to inhale before the punch and tense at impact. Very good, young sir! Remember also to exhale into the throw and relax when you return to position. Show me again.”

  
  
  


_ January, 1903 _

Peter laid out a doily and the nicest cup and saucer he could find for Pepper’s coffee. He also placed a tin of candied walnuts on the table that he’d been conservatively snacking from for the past month. 

Pepper sat taking soft breaths; it seemed this was perhaps the first moment she’d had to rest in days. Peter opened the tin with a small pop and Pepper noticed his activity for the first time. “Oh,” she said, “Peter, you don’t need to go to any trouble. Please, sit with me.”

She placed a hand on the table beside her and Peter moved into the chair she was indicating. He waited while she traced a finger over her eyebrow. Gently, she began: “Happy mentioned to you that Mr. Jarvis is not well?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peter said. “I am so very sorry.”

Pepper sniffed. Her eyes, so purposeful usually, looked lost. They wandered briefly around the ceiling, brushing over the oil paintings on the wall, the couple of family photographs— one of Ben and Richard as boys, the other of May and her parents and siblings. She was four years old in the photo. 

There was one photograph taken of Peter with his parents when he was eighteen months old. They were just preparing to move to America; the photograph was taken in Vaduz. When Richard and Mary had died and Peter was discovered by neighbors, alone, frightened, because he knew his parents (like the insects his mother studied, in their glass cases) were  _ dead _ , but he didn’t know what to do, he was taken to the hospital, then the orphanage, and the photograph remained in the apartment. Their things were quickly cleaned out for the next tenet. 

Fortunately, word spread to Nancy Leeds, Ned’s mother, and she stubbornly supervised the landlord and his lackeys as they packed up the Parkers’ belongings. She grabbed what she thought Peter would hold dear as he grew up without his parents. As soon as she learned where Peter was (by this time May and Ben had come for him) she delivered these items to the motel where they lived. The photograph of Peter and his mama and papa was now hung in his bedroom.

“Tony has taken Mr. Jarvis to his cottage home, where his wife is buried.” Pepper began. “We don’t think he’ll last the night.” She paused and Peter laid a hand on her arm to which she smiled tearfully. “I’m here to,” —she cleared her throat— “ask if you’d be comfortable attending his funeral.”

Peter’s face constricted. “Of course, ma’am.”

“It will only be a small group. And there should be very little extravagance. Mr. Jarvis wouldn’t tolerate any but,” she said and they both released a chuckle. “Mr. Jarvis asked that you be invited.” 

Here Pepper smiled so he would understand that he was welcomed, wanted. Peter lowered his eyes and held onto the sweet ache he felt. He thought of the bond between Jarvis and himself. 

The man had been very kind to him and treated him as though he were somehow  _ important _ , always talking to him with respect, asking after his well being, and even calming his doubts when he stood, intimidated, in the grand halls of the Stark Mansion. Jarvis was the first to imply that Tony cared for him, beyond just as an entertainment.

It was the first time he visited the mansion; he was delivering a case of porcelain salt and pepper shakers. On the way to Manhattan, he’d turned his ankle and fallen to one knee in a rough-gravelled puddle. Humiliated to be standing on the mansion threshold with his entire right shin drenched and sullied with mud, and scared that a few shakers may have cracked, Peter was trembling when Jarvis approached him.

The man quickly saw he was in a miserable state and encouraged him to go to a drawing room “for some repose while I alert my master that you’ve arrived.” But, Peter was barely holding in his tears and was too ashamed to be seen any longer. He attempted to leave, but Jarvis noticed the way he nursed his ankle. “Are you injured, Mr. Parker? Please allow me to assist you.” Then he practically swept Peter to a soft chair. 

Jarvis ignored his protests that he would soil the chair’s beautiful fabric as he touched the boy’s bruised ankle, gingerly feeling for a break. Finally, Jarvis won the battle by saying: “I would venture to guess that Mr. Stark would be very concerned if you left in this state, Mr. Parker. You are an important guest of his and I imagine he would care greatly that you are hurt.” He left Peter on the chair to retrieve some turmeric salve and gauze.

_ Guest? _ Peter remembered thinking astonishedly.  _ Why didn’t I speak up? I’m no guest, just a delivery boy. Why did he know my name? _

When the man returned, Tony was with him. “Been kicking mud hornet nest, have you?” He asked casually, lowering himself to his knees. Tony cut off Peter’s embarrassed refusal to let them tend to him. “I’m going to have a look at your ankle, so…” He tapped the toe of Peter’s shoe. “Shoe off!”

Then Tony said to Jarvis, “I’ll see to this, J.” He took the small tray with the salve and rolled gauze and set it on the floor. “No need for you to bend down at your age.”

“Your regard for my assumed frailty is touching, Sir.” Jarvis said dryly.

Tony grinned like a boy in church who’d gotten away with mischief because his parent was in the choir loft. He tenderly held Peter’s ankle and dabbed the salve on the swelling. Thankfully, no bones appeared broken. Peter watched, longing for home. 

Tony said, “Would you be able to scare up a change of trousers, socks, and shoes for our little egret friend?”

Peter protested loudly, so Tony added: “You’ll have to speak up, J, someone’s yelling.” This instantly stopped Peter’s mouth. He turned a bright red. 

Jarvis made to leave as Tony began to wrap Peter’s ankle snugly with the gauze. Peter glimpsed the butler pause before he left. He was looking at Tony, smiling, Peter thought,  _ proudly _ .

  
  
  


_ December, 1871 _

The carriage was still lurching when Tony hurled himself from it, skidding on the greystone drive. Seamlessly, he shifted his momentum and sprinted across the snow. The footmen, who were there to unload his luggage from the academy, cried after him, “Mister Anthony! Your mother is expecting you presently!” He ignored their pleas, panting in desperation, running to the Jarvis cottage.

In the severity of winter, the cottage was stripped of its garden cocoon. It looked naked, standing alone in the snow. Tony rasped painfully as he finally reached the front step. The door didn’t budge when he pulled the handle, a little violently. Frantic, he knocked with an open hand, but not waiting for an answer. He searched the walls as though they would open to grant him passage.

There was the murmur of disturbed snow behind him. He turned and saw Jarvis moving across the lawn, coming from the main house, to meet him. Jarvis’s eyes were cast to the ground as though carefully watching his step. He didn’t look up at the teenager’s face until he entered through the fence gate. Emotion kept Tony’s breath straggling. He swallowed just as Jarvis met his gaze.

Jarvis smiled gently. “Welcome home, Young Sir.” 

Tony couldn’t speak. His breath spilled out as ghostly fog. Language was lost except through his knitted expression.  _ Please. Please let me go in _ .

Jarvis cleared his throat. “Allow me to get the door for you.” He approached and unlocked the door. Then, opening it, he allowed Tony to enter the cottage first. 

The movements of Tony’s legs were stunted as if his joints had calcified. His shoulders and elbows cut weird angles, collapsed and folded, like a swan’s wings. The base of his spine bowed slightly. He shuffled into the kitchen.

There was no light in the house, which seemed to him so unnatural that he shivered as if scared— or cold? He didn’t know. The dimness spoke to him; it told stories of empty nights, of his absence while at the academy, of a life like a lost breath.

He scanned the walls and saw her sketches still hanging there. He saw her dried flowers and herbs hanging above the kitchen sink. There were the postcards she framed from her mother in Budapest. Knick knacks bought at shops around Europe. One of the kites they built was still hung on the wall. It had seemed silly to him at the time, but he was grateful now. The room was still arranged the way she liked it. Jarvis wouldn’t change these things, would he?

Revolving slightly, in place, Tony inspected every nook of the cottage walls, looking for changes. He was looking for signs. His eyes burdened with tears. He was looking for things missing. His stomach clenched unbearably tight. He was looking for  _ her _ . He was looking for her.

He sobbed, pulling both hands through his hair.

Then, he saw the bassinet in the corner of their sitting room. He was before it soon, not remembering moving across the room. Lightly, his fingers touched the green ruffles. He played a second with the thin ribbons. Knitted baby booties were laying on the end table nearby. Tony didn’t recognize the adjacent rocking chair. He stared at it.

The next sensation was bubbling inhalation. He felt himself convulse, barking breaths too far apart to keep him supplied with oxygen. He caught the arm of the rocking chair. Jarvis was beside him quickly, one arm around his back, the other on his arm.

“Young Sir, breathe.” Jarvis instructed calmly but with urgency. Tony choked; his cheeks were twitching. “Breathe like we do in the boxing ring.”

Jarvis braced Tony’s arms with his own. He encouraged the boy to rise. Tony gasped, but began to recite to his body what it should do: inhale sharply through the nose, exhale and relax. Inhale sharply through the nose, exhale, relax. Jarvis secured his arms to his sides. Elbows down! Hands up!

His spirit  _ fought _ him, though, pleading to collapse.  _ She’s gone! She’s dead! The only person that ever loved me! I wasn’t enough! I wasn’t hers. She’s gone. She’s gone! _

Jarvis held him. Gently, he swung them back then forward, miming the punch. He kept a rhythm that supported healthy breathing. “Inhale.” He rocked Tony back. “Exhale and tense.” He rocked Tony forward, felt him clench his fist at the wall then release a pent up exhale.

Tony saw his shadow on the wall. His shadow over the bassinet. Inhale. His fist struck toward it. Exhale. Tense. Relax.  _ I killed her _ . Inhale.  _ She’s gone; I’m here _ . Adrenaline coursed in him; he regained control of his lungs. Exhale. Tense. _ I’m finally…  _ Relax ... _ all alone _ . Spikes of pain screwed through his jaws. He cried.

He cried, then he surged forth, breaking from Jarvis, throwing his weight into it— he punched his shadow directly in its heart and the wall was left with a kiss of his blood.

  
  
  


_ January, 1903 _

Peter threw himself into his work with renewed fervor. After he mixed his glaze components according to both recipe variations, he donned his apron, with its dried layers of slip, and pried open a crate of kaolin and a container of ball clay. Mixing the porcelain to the right plasticity took an hour. Peter carefully controlled each aspect of the clay. This piece was  _ special _ .

Pepper had told him there was nothing he could do— for Jarvis or for Tony. Even though he’d eagerly offered to help at the cottage, cooking or fetching things, Pepper shook her head. “You’re such a very sweet child.” She said, “But, I think that there’s nothing you, or I, can do right now.” When there was nothing else he could do, Peter always returned to the clay.

May had come home as Pepper spoke to him about the funeral. When May saw Pepper at the table, her eyes wetted. “O!” May wrapped her arms around Pepper’s shoulders. “ _ Vi siana vicin _ i! I’m so sorry, dear!” 

Pepper returned her embrace. “Thank you, May,” she said and squeezed her eyes closed. To be honest, Peter was amazed. He had not seen the two together often. 

A deep sense of family filled him. At this moment, he was ignited to  _ create _ . He would create for his family and it would be the embodiment of their grief and shared love.

He threw the clay onto his wheel. Not bothering to sit at the stool, Peter allowed his body to tease around the clay, bewitching it as it spun, drawing it to him, feeding his vision into its rising form. He was grimly resentful of his attitude for almost the past two weeks. He’d been stubborn and misunderstood Tony’s gift.

There was no need to conserve materials; Tony wanted him to continue to create, without worrying about his work as a  _ business _ . There was time to learn. Meanwhile, Tony intended him to be free. Maybe not  _ totally _ free; he expected him to study and apply himself intelligently to his craft. But, to be as free as he could at his age.

Peter shaped the clay, saying every word he knew for family. Generosity. Trust. Acceptance… This was to be his offering to those who loved him. Also, however, he wanted to prove himself to Tony. Prove that he deserved the investment Tony had made in him.

  
  
  


_ December, 1871 _

Tony’s knuckles were broken. Jarvis knew from the sound of their impact against the wall and Tony’s agonized yelp. Jarvis tried to turn him, but Tony resisted, tucking his head resolutely to his chest. His shoulders build a cage. He was crying, wailing, actually, like a child even younger than he’d been when Ana became his nanny.

Finally, Jarvis had to crowd between Tony and the wall. Once he was able to push his way in front of the young man, Tony barreled into him, arms around his back, grasping with his uninjured hand to Jarvis’s suit jacket. Jarvis put aside the thought of the hurt knuckles; comfort first, it would have to be. 

Tony was weeping against his neck. He held the boy tightly and began to speak any comforting words that came to his mind. “I’m here, young sir. You have me. I’m with you.”

Tony shuddered; Jarvis was relieved that he was not hyperventilating any longer. Words began to tear their way from the young man’s throat. It took several minutes to translate the moans and hiccups into: “I’m sorry, Jarvis, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry—!”

When Tony’s knees gave out under the weight of sorrow, Jarvis couldn’t support them both. He backed into the rocking chair, sank, and pulled Tony onto his lap, lying him across his chest. It was an awkward position, but manageable. Tony was shorter than most fourteen year old boys, and lean, though muscular, so he was not too difficult to hold this way. Reflexively, Jarvis began to rock the chair. It helped to distribute the boy’s weight.

“Why do you apologize, young sir?”

Tony snuffled. After a moment, he attempted to speak again. “The-they w-w-woul-n-n’t-t allow m-me to tra-vel ba-ack ‘ntil the s’mester had e-ended!” He heaved another painful sob. “Fa-fa-ther— I didn’t get to say goodbye!” The anger and grief tolled through his last cry.

Jarvis was quiet for a long time. Sighing deeply, he said, “Ana treasured your letters. I hope you know she read them all the time she was on bedrest. She knew you were thinking of her.”

Tony’s wails renewed. Jarvis began to rock again. He moved a hand against the boy’s back, attempting to soothe him. The fit didn’t last as long this time before Tony coughed out another phrase. “It’s my fault, J! I did”— he lost his breath— “th-thi-is t’ h-h-her-r!”

Jarvis had to swallow before he could speak again. He’d had time to grieve. Ana was buried, along with their unborn child, nearly two months ago. After weeks of sterile, joyless life alone, he had a new routine and each day was easier to conquer. But, with the quaking youth slung across his chest, wounds were beginning to open again.

For Tony, the loss had been confirmed only when he stepped into the cottage. Fresh, raw, it was like a potent venom. He sat writhing in its grip.

“No, Young Sir.”

“Yes, Jarvis—!“ Tony snapped. “I—“ His voice failed. The arms around him pressed down reassuringly. Jarvis’s heartbeat surprised him. He hadn’t been listening, yet, suddenly, it was below his ear. Steady, the sound seeped into him and he calmed significantly. Heartened, he was ready to confide. “I didn’t want her to have a child.” Lashes of guilt struck up and down his throat. “I was selfish— I—wished that— she wou- _ wouldn’t— _ “

Tony couldn’t see the wince that crossed Jarvis’s face. But, he felt the kiss on his forehead. He whimpered. Why was he receiving love? Why, when what he’d done was so awful?

“I hardly think you are so capable, Young Sir, of influencing what happens in this world. Not even a child’s parents are always totally involved in its, er, planning.” Jarvis murmured then cleared his throat. “Besides, I would have you know, that Ana and I  _ already had a child _ .”

When he realized Jarvis meant him, Tony‘s eyes flickered, and then he felt the kiss again. This time, it was slightly more emotional, leaving his forehead with a tiny sound. Tony closed his eyes.

“And, please know that any others were not meant to replace you. She never wished to replace you. Her hope had been for you to be as a—” He abandoned the phrase. Social decorum still had a hold on his mind; that would never be easy to overcome.

Tony somehow figured out his meaning anyway:  _ as an older brother _ .

Jarvis’s voice lowered more when he spoke again. “She loved you, Tony.” The heartbeat quickened. “ _ I _ love you.”

Whispering Tony returned the affection: “Me, too.”

After an indeterminable time, Tony pulled away, but not because he wanted to; neither could take the precarious arrangement on the rocker any longer. Tony’s broken hand throbbed unbearably. He held it to his abdomen.   


Jarvis stood and asked, as evenly as if he’d not just held and kissed Tony as affectionately as any father could: “If you’ve endured that long enough, I’d suggest allowing me to tend to it, Young Sir.”

“Thank you, J. Thank you.”


	7. The Sheep May Safely Graze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Tony prepares to care for Jarvis during his last days, he’s reminded of the turbulent days following Ana’s death, when he was a teenager. In his youth, Tony reacted to grief with violence and self-destruction. Jarvis, however, trusted him to rise above these compulsions.
> 
> With Jarvis’s life ending, how will Tony cope with the loss now that he’s grown up?

_December, 1871_

With his knuckles tightly bound and his face blotchy from crying, Tony sat at Jarvis’s kitchen table. Jarvis had chipped ice from the stone fence and wrapped it in a tea towel. He instructed Tony to allow it to set on his hand for five minutes. 

Tony’s face was haggard; he looked to have the resilience of balding terry cloth. The Edwardian table linen, starched as it was, felt scratchy under his thumb. It was the only finger he could now move on his right hand; he callously dragged it over the stiff fabric until it left a welt.

Jarvis returned from the cellar with a crystal bottle of sherry. He poured a very small glass and set it down for Tony. “Just a mouthful until the doctor brings some proper pain relief.” He said temperately. Then, he removed the tea towel of ice and turned to retrieve some water for Tony to sip.

Tony sighed tiredly then took the sherry glass. At first he reached with his right hand, but jolted the swelling fingers on the glass and withdrew with a hiss. Using his left hand, he threw back his head and drained all of the fortified liquor. No wince or shudder passed over the youth’s face after imbibing.

Jarvis paused and concern crept into the corners of his mouth. The young man glanced at him when it became clear that Jarvis was staring. This had not been Tony’s first drink of alcohol; Jarvis knew that. Still, how accustomed to it had he grown? Tony saw the incredulous remark forming behind Jarvis’s teeth. Still, the man didn’t challenge him.

Tony sharply dropped his gaze. He didn’t want Jarvis to be disappointed in him. “J, can I lie down?” He asked with a deflecting tone. “I’m exhausted.”

“Only until the doctor arrives,” Jarvis said. 

A glass of water entered Tony’s sight. He didn’t take it, instead glancing up as Jarvis drew on his woolen coat. Numbly, he wondered why a doctor was necessary. He’d only punched the wall. Flashes came to him of himself at thirteen, planting a fist dead on the sternum of a man in a Manhattan alleyway. The brawny man’s chest _felt_ like a wall. But then, hadn’t Mrs. Ana taken him to a doctor then, too?

“I shall return as soon as I’ve sent for one.” Jarvis interrupted his memories. The butler fastened his hat over his ears and left the cottage.

Tony heard the lock turn.

Being left alone took an effect on Tony that he had not anticipated. Suddenly his heart muscles seemed to enlarge, swelling like his tar and plum-hued knuckles, invading past the borders of his ribs. Tony emptied his lungs to make room. _I’m tired_ , he thought pitifully, _just so tired_. He stumbled from the chair, rapping his knee on the table leg.

With a rusty, mechanical gait, he made his way to his bedroom— the guest bedroom. He stopped at the door, pushing the crown of his head into the wood. What if this was a nursery now? Converted to accommodate the unborn— daughter or _son_? He rubbed his forehead over the smooth white paint of the door. He couldn’t force himself to open it.

In there, was the single-sized mattress, with its iron brass rod frame, still covered with the delicate, floral-patterned quilt? Was the wardrobe, still unused, guarding the bed? Were there still wildflower field-guides on the bedside table? Inside, was the washstand, with its round vanity mirror, still smelling of soap and lavender that had speckled the wood when he’d carelessly splash his face in the morning? Did the room smell of mothballs and honey and _Ana_?

Tony’s now oversized heart constricted. He gasped, quickly, softly. The baby would have probably slept in their room for a couple years after all, so there was no reason to alter this space. Eventually, maybe, but Tony could just sleep on a sofa or with Ana and Jarvis in their bed—

Tony nearly slapped himself— _You idiot! What are you saying?_ Mortification blazed in his cheeks. _I’m tired_.

He spent the next few moments retraining himself to breathe. Were he not so weary, from traveling and crying, he may have descended into the cellar to take out his frustration on the punching bag. He could have read any of the books in the parlor to calm himself. He could easily recline on the sofa. Tony wanted badly to sleep!

But, there was the rocking chair and the bassinet— _Why is that still in here?_ He wondered. Ana died two months ago. Surely Jarvis could have moved it out within two months. Why keep it? _He’s sad he lost the baby_ , Tony determined.

Tony’s eyes drifted up to the spot where he’d struck the wall. Jarvis already had cleaned off the blood. And yet, how long until he would move out the bassinet?

He tripped in tight, bee-dance circles from the hall, around the parlor, and into the kitchen. If he could only slow his racing blood… lose his focus and succumb… dull the drone in his ears… He was too numb to cry despite the sobs locked in his chest. Stumbling to the kitchen sink, Tony retrieved the bottle of sherry. The glass, he left on the table.

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

May discovered Peter in the scullery at three o’clock in the morning on the sixth. He was draped over a kitchen chair, his arms slung across the high back, and his head nested within the hammock they created. Sleep haloed him.

Taking a few quiet steps, May peeked at his pottery wheel and assortment of jars on the little shelves behind it. She judged that his feverish work was nearly complete since so much had already been tidied. The candle that lit his endeavor waded in a reservoir of wax in its stand.

“Peter.” May touched his back. He was warm with slumber, snoring softly. When he didn’t stir, she kneaded her fingers on his scalp, calling. “Peter, you should be in bed, _motek._ ”

After a shuddering inhale, he lifted his face. His eyes unpeeled as he stretched out the knots in his shoulders. “Hmm? May?” Realizing where he was, he looked at the kiln. “I shouldn’t be long, Aunt May, I promise.”

“Did you know the sun will rise in two hours?” May asked, but without reproach.

“I’m nearly finished. I’m only observing the cool down process.” Peter rubbed an eye. Then he smiled dreamily at her.

May hummed. She retrieved a stool from the kitchen and lowered herself— the decades of bending over washing basins was catching up with her; her hips we are stiff as a rusted pair of scissors. “I’m sure you won’t mind if I keep you company.”

Peter chuckled. “You only want to make sure that I actually make it to my bedroom.”

“Very observant,” May said.

Peter hopped up from the chair. “At least take the chair, Aunt May! I’ll have the stool.” Offering his arms, he helped May stand.

She touched his cheek. “You are the most loving boy I’ve ever known.”

Peter bashfully ducked his head. When she sat, he moved the stool so he could sit beside her. As they settled, she guided his head onto her lap and rested a hand on his temple. He exhaled deeply. 

They sat like this for a while, with May’s little finger stroking his forehead. Then, Peter murmured: “Aunt May?”

“Yes?”

“When I was a kid, people always asked if you were my mother.” Peter confided. 

May paused her caresses as she accepted the information. She’d had plenty of similar inquiries. _Oh, is that your son? He must resemble his father, eh?_ She resumed her tender brushing of his cheek, humming for him to continue his thought.

“I told them the truth, that you were my aunt but that you were caring for me since my parents died. Then they would ask me so many questions about being an orphan that I…” He swallowed. “Finally, I just told people that you were my mother.” He let the silence grow heavy, waiting for a reaction. But, she was quiet and just stroked his hair. He meekly asked, “Was that wrong for me to do?”

May smiled in the dim candlelight. “No, _sheifale_.”

Then, even more quietly: “Do you think Mama would be hurt by it?”

Quiet.

“No, _sheifale_.”

The truth was, she used to feel very guilty that she was living an unspeakably happy life with Mary’s child. She watched him grow tall, grow capable; she was read to when he was learning his letters; she received kisses every day, hugs every day; and, she saw him overcome his fears and develop his voice. Yet… She had not stolen him. How she wished the four of them— Richard, Mary, Ben, and she— could all be with him, together. She was not unkind, only life had been.

Peter’s voice dripped with drowsiness. “Is it all right to have more than one mother, more than one,” he said, “father?”

May didn’t answer directly; she chuckled and nodded. “I would have you _surrounded_ by people who love you and who would protect you! There is no limit, as long as they truly care for you.”

This seemed to satisfy him, because he fell asleep.

  
  
  


_December, 1871_

Jarvis traversed quickly through the packed snow, toward the stables. There was a doctor, a brilliant man at that, who lived closeby; though he hated Howard, he was a good man and could likely be persuaded not to gossip about Tony’s broken hand. He and Jarvis had an understanding; Jarvis was loyal to the Stark family, but a valuable consultant on household management— something the Pym estate had once struggled with greatly. 

Howard had graciously offered Jarvis’s vetting services to Dr. Hank Pym as a peace offering after some public disagreement at a gentlemen's club. Jarvis was able to straighten out the Pym estate staff, recommend a suitable butler, and also gain Dr. Pym’s admiration. The alliance had proven mutually beneficial ever since, particularly this past year. 

Dr. Pym had worked tirelessly to spare Ana’s life throughout the difficult pregnancy. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jarvis,” Dr. Pym had said when Ana died. “There was a reason she had never before made it to a second trimester. Honestly, it was a miracle— though cruel, perhaps— that she ever conceived at all.”

Dr. Pym offered to pay for her burial, but Jarvis refused.

An approaching succession of crunches broke his thoughts. Looking up, Jarvis saw one of the footmen lopping toward him. “Mr. Jarvis, Madam is requesting Mr. Anthony to—“

“He is at my cottage at the moment and I would not have him disturbed.” Jarvis continued his gait, impetuously.

“I know, sir, but Madam—“

“He is not to be disturbed.” Jarvis reiterated sternly. “He deserves time to grieve.” He stopped. Ahead of him was Mrs. Stark, walking his way, her black lace gloves distressed in her wringing hands. He sighed then instructed the footman to ride to Dr. Pym’s house. “Tell him I implore his attendance at my cottage and that Sir is not involved.”

The footman obviously had questions but knew better than to ask. As he hurried to his new task, Mrs. Stark reached Jarvis. Emotion sent a tremor through her face. “Mr. Jarvis, I understand Tony is at your cottage?”

Maria had begun to relate better with Tony now that he was older. She took a genuine interest in him as a person, and though he was guarded around her, she faithfully attempted to build his trust. With this in mind, Jarvis softened a little; however, he had no intention of relinquishing Tony against his wishes.

“He is, Madam.”

“Is he—“ Maria hesitated— “well?”

“At the moment he is quite exhausted and he has injured his hand, I’m afraid, but is resting.” Jarvis said. “I would recommend allowing him to remain until it is his prerogative to return to the house, Madam.”

“Did I hear you say that you’re calling Dr. Pym? How has Tony injured his hand?” She pressed, leaning toward him.

 _Tread lightly, Edwin_ , he told himself. “The young sir appears quite distraught. In an outburst, he injured his hand against the wall of my cottage.”

Maria blinked hard then sighed. “ _Esaltato_ …” After letting this slip under her breath, she folded her hands and addressed him again. “I would like a report from the doctor once he’s seen. I agree that he should not be harassed while in a _state_ ; I understand that Mrs. Jarvis was dear to him.” 

“Very good, Madam.” Jarvis nodded.

“However, would you tell him that I want him to return to the house, before Christmas Eve at the latest. It is his home, after all.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“That would give him a few days.” She sniffed, absently. “And,” she added with some humiliation, “will you let Tony know that” — she paused and her eyes brushed the snow at their feet— “I am... _sorry_ that he was unable to travel home in time to…” Her voice cut off and she finished with a stiff nod, relying on him to interpret.

“Very good, Madam.”

After a long glance toward the cottage, which was obscured from this angle by the evergreen hedges, she pulled her fur shawl closer and turned toward the mansion.

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

James “Rhodey” Rhodes lifted the last potted larkspur from the covered wagon. The smooth ceramic of the planter was frigid; to gain a good grip on it, he had removed his gloves. Winter chill licked his fingers until the tips seemed affixed to the stoneware. Carrying the fully bloomed plant, he felt that he was embracing a miracle. Pepper explained, as they stood in her _jardin d’hive_ r, gathering larkspur and foxgloves to be moved to the cottage, that she could control the growing conditions for many different plants.

Tony had created a system for heating and humidifying that was centralized beneath the floor of the garden. Pepper demonstrated, showing him the panel of thermostats and levers. Seeing the tall larkspur, with its periwinkle blossoms, against the snowy backdrop, Rhodes was once again amazed by Tony’s ingenuity. Not that his friend had invented the concept of a _jardin d’hiver_ , but that his design and construction were so successful.

Rhodey called to Happy that all the plants they had transported were unloaded and he could tie the flaps down. Hugging the heavy pot, he entered the Jarvis cottage, minding the height of the stalks so they didn’t brush against the doorframe. Inside, the cottage was warm and smelled of honey, dust, and radiators. 

Tony met him in the kitchen and attempted to take the pot. “No, no,” Rhodey said. “I will carry it; you instruct me on where to place it.”

“Just alongside the others.” Tony said. His voice was weak and Rhodey noted the weariness that betrayed itself. Tony asked: “So that is the last?”

“Yes.” Rhodes disappeared into the master bedroom. When he emerged, he said: “It looks as close to an English garden in there as anyone could make it. Are you sure it won’t aggravate his condition?”

Tony sighed. “Not as much as moving him in the damn, frightful weather, but, it’s what J wants and I will be sure to keep him…” Here his voice failed. After a moment he resumed the thought. “As free of pain as I’m able.” There was irony in his expression, though his voice was somber.

Rhodey breathed then quietly clapped his hands. “I’ll start the coffee, then.” He moved to the kitchen. Though the cabin had been untenneted for years, Tony had brought everything imaginably needed for three days’ stay. He doubted they would be there for so long. 

“Rhodes, go home.” Tony shook his head. “You should be with Carol.”

Rhodey snorted. “I’m not so sure she would agree with you. Only a few nights ago she threatened to eject me from the window if I didn’t quit asking if she was comfortable.” He crossed his arms. “She just may be the most belligerent pregnant woman I’ve met— and I was there for all four of my sisters’, six of my aunts’, and ten of my cousins’ pregnancies.”

Tony mustered a smile.

Finding the kettle, Rhodey carried it to the sink. His tone became gentler. “All that to say, I think Carol would _approve_ of me lending my services here tonight.” He positioned the kettle. “Besides, it’s not such a far walk, if she did call for me.”

Wordlessly, Tony approached and clasped his shoulder. Then he breathed deeply. “I can’t promise I won’t eject you either, though, if you try to nursemaid me.”

“You protest,” Rhodey said, beginning to work the squeaky water pump. “Yet, I recall many distress calls over the years. The last time, in fact, I believe you called me all the way to Manhattan to help you make a guest list for some benefit.”

“Not just _some_ benefit.” Tony interrupted. “It was a very important fundraiser for the Child Labor Reform Committee and of course Pepper had completely _abandoned_ me for Germany—“

“Where she was building partnerships for Stark International and recruiting engineers for the railroad expansion?” The question came with a raised eyebrow and glint of playful derision. Tony only shrugged as though that were not an acceptable excuse.

Rhodey gave up on the pump, which was producing no water. He sighed. “I think I will go up to the house and retrieve some water from Cook.”

“While you’re there,” Tony said. “Thank the master of the house for his warm hospitality.” He smiled as his friend re-buttoned his heavy coat.

Rhodey tightened his muffler, rolling his eyes. “Tell him yourself.” He exited.

This was Rhodes Hall now; it, and the grounds, and Jarvis cottage, had been under the Rhodes family’s care for nearly twenty years.

In the quiet solitude created by Rhodey’s departure, Tony let his joviality die. He patted his sides uselessly. Dr. Pym and Jarvis should arrive within the next half hour; everything was prepared for Jarvis’s comfort. And yet, Tony was quaking from the inside, the fear and doubt that confronts every caretaker hanging from his shoulders. He looked around the cottage, desperately, searching for a task to occupy him.

He shouldn’t have allowed so much time for them to arrive. Tony hated free time, hated empty hands, hated the thoughts that crept into his overly diligent mind when idle. At least Rhodey could distract him, he thought gratefully. 

Rocking on his heels, Tony examined the walls of the cottage. All its treasures had been removed from the walls when his father sold the Long Island estate and they had moved to Richmond. Jarvis, always careful of each detail, had lovingly packed his and Ana’s home into little boxes, according to where each item had been arranged. 

All day he had arranged the items from the box marked “our bedroom” where they’d been, to the best of his memory. The rest of his home may be bare, but Tony wanted at least the room where Jarvis would rest to be as much a reminder of gentle days as possible.

Tony remembered being sixteen, listening to Jarvis weep as he sorted through a desk, removing Ana’s rulers, compass, and the granite and blue and white chalk pencils that she used for her architectural drawings. Drawings that were bequeathed to Tony, according to her will. Many of those designs were constructed throughout his young adulthood. Earth could not deny her legacy.

He remembered the music, too, that filled the home in the short weeks leading up to their move to Richmond. Music and weeping. The shifting of furniture. Or, some at least— there were still remnants of the parlor that was left intact.

Tony let his memories propel him to the cabinets. In a cobwebbed corner he found a tub of wax. Searching a little longer produced a bottle of linseed oil, nearly empty, but enough. Tony tossed off his outer jacket and rolled his sleeves away from his wrists. He bent over the kitchen table, also left behind all those years ago, and began to polish it. The smell of the linseed oil soaked into his soul. He surrendered to it.

  
  
  


_December, 1871_

The sherry bottle was empty.

Tony couldn’t hear anything. Nothing above a pressurized pulse in his ears, as though through cotton.

His knees were cold and moisture soaked into the corduroy.

The little finger of his left hand was blood-crimson as he dragged it through the snow, tracing the letters on Ana’s gravestone, barely prickling against the cut slate.

Ana’s name stood out, suspended, contrasting with the drift of white across the stone.

Tony sniffed.

No movement in his face. No tears in his eyes.

Blinking, he curled himself against the marker, forgetting how to or why he should move.

Blood throbbed against his broken knuckles once then relaxed.

“I did my job, Mrs. Ana. I did. I did my job... A lot of _good_ it was to you.”

The wind scared up tears as it blew into his eyes. He closed them. “I did, I promise…” Then the sherry sang him to sleep.

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

Peter slept through the morning of the sixth, though he hadn’t meant to. In fact, he continued, cocooned in warm blankets, to sleep until after lunchtime. At noon, May tiptoed in and drew the heavier curtains open. She didn’t wake him, thinking he would have plenty that would demand his attention in the coming days. Then, she crept out and left the house to visit the market.

The sun filtered through the sheer curtains still across the window. Its rays fell on the small string-of-pearls plant that Pepper had given him for Christmas. Peter opened his eyes and saw the sunlight gleaming on the pearly stoneware planter. He sighed and resisted the curiosity telling him to check the clock.

But, his stomach rumbled.

Kicking off the sheets, he frowned as the air ran over his legs. He didn’t have any coherent thoughts, however, before the sound of a knock made him jerk up his head. He waited, but didn’t hear May; she would answer or call if she were there. Peter didn’t hear her; then he realized that he didn’t hear another knock either.

He tore his robe from the bedpost and threw it over his shoulders. “One moment, please!” He shouted, tying his belt, getting his wrists tangled in it.

Feet and heart were pounding in rhythm. Peter had a feeling— he had to open the door before the guest left. He fumbled the locks open and burst out the door onto the icy stoop. His breath poured out in a cloud. Then, it caught in his chest.

Receding toward the barn was Tony. He turned, having heard the door. “Ah. Kid! You are here after all.” He began to saunter back to the stoop and Peter.

Peter couldn’t find his voice and didn’t know what to say if he could.

Tony pointed at his bare feet. “If you promise to put on some boots, and consider a daytime outfit,” he said, and Peter noticed the sleepless circles under his eyes, “I thought we might go somewhere.”

  
  
  


_July, 1874_

Tony stormed to the Jarvis cottage in the late evening, after railing at his father. 

“You can’t sell the estate!”

Howard glared at him in shock. Tony had stood from his place at the dining table, shoulders thrown toward his father. The footmen attending the family visibly stiffened at the commotion.

“Oh?” Howard intoned lowly. “Why’s that?”

Tony had no composure. Distraught, he screamed, tears already in his eyes, despite himself. “Mrs. Ana is buried here!”

That actually caused Howard to recoil. He blinked and lowered his eyes before clearing his throat. “I had not considered that, I’ll admit—“

“Of course you didn’t.” Tony spit.

Maria shrilled anxiously at him. “Anthony! _Sta' zitto_!” Tony held his tongue, but continued to scowl. Maria appealed to Howard. “We cannot expect Mr. Jarvis to leave his wife’s burial place. After all, you granted your permission for him to bury Mrs. Jarvis on the land.”

Howard chuckled darkly. “‘We,’ you said? Is this the new order of things? For my household to tell me what I can or cannot do?” Then his expression soured. Maria bowed in agitated submission. “ _I_ will decide what’s to be done.”

Tony persisted. His words scraped through tight jaws. “What if your decision is wrong?“

Howard flared his nostrils, but tucked in his chin in an effort to remain in control. At that time in their relationship, Howard was mildly tolerant of his son. Tony had honored the Stark name, enrolling at the Boston Polytechnic University the past fall, when he was still fifteen. In private, he allowed Tony more leeway in disputing him, saying he preferred a man of conviction to a “limp-wristed” boy any day.

Yet, Howard could not abide such challenges of authority from Tony in front of his staff. From the corner of his eye he saw the footmen shuffling. “This is your warning, boy. I suggest—“

Tony then suggested something of his own and Howard slammed his hands on the dining room table, causing the dishes to leap. 

The footmen gave their best effort to remain immobile. Maria, interjected—“Howard, he’s still just a boy!”— but, his father had a rule for his son now that he was a young man. If Tony disrespected Howard in front of others, he would be corrected, immediately, with those individuals as witnesses. The idea was equal respect lost, equal respect regained.

  
  
  


Tony ran his tongue over his tender lower lip as he stomped past the menagerie that night. Howard’s broad ring had caught his mouth, striking hard enough that the ring nearly clinked through the skin against his incisor. He entered the cottage, meaning to call for Jarvis, to demand he confront his father, to _say something_ about the fact that Howard was uprooting them from the one place Ana still existed, but he halted when he heard the piano.

Jarvis had not played, at least not in Tony’s hearing, since Ana died. The sound seemed wrong, somehow. Tony rested his head softly on the door frame and listened for a while, a hand helping to brace him. Then, he sighed and slunk through the kitchen and into the parlor.

If Jarvis heard him, he did not cease playing or even look at the youth. The piece was a nocturne, Chopin’s Opus 9 no. 3. Listening felt like sleeping. The music matched the summer zephyr which played in the shades of the picture window. Tony sank dejectedly onto the sofa. Once again, the room, with only the two of them, seemed empty.

By the time Jarvis finally removed his gentle hands from the piano keys, and pivoted on the bench to look at him, Tony was exhausted from the decline of adrenaline. He slumped back, looking at his knees, then met the man’s gaze. Jarvis glanced down at his lip and Tony saw the pause in his chest, the concerned flicker in his eyes. For a moment, they were silent.

Then Tony rolled his head ironically to the side. “Mrs. Ana hated music like that.” He smirked and Jarvis returned it.

“Yes, she did.” Jarvis agreed. He stood and Tony knew he was going to get something to comfort Tony’s swelling lip. “Vastly preferred music that didn’t ‘require’ her ‘attention to enjoy it.’” Tony heard the water pump creak. “My counter, of course, to that assessment was that music that didn’t require your attention didn’t deserve it.”

He returned with a damp, cold cloth and held it to Tony’s mouth until the young man took it. “J,” Tony said, vocal folds straining against a swell of anguish. “Howard is going to sell the estate!”

Jarvis’s normally imperturbable expression faltered briefly. He turned and took a seat at the piano again. “You should not address your father in such a fashion, Young Sir.”

Tony shot from the sofa. He shouted. “What difference is it how I address him? Did you not hear what I said?”

“At your volume, Young Sir, I should think I did.”

“You have to talk to him! Make him change his mind.”

Remaining calm, Jarvis said: “I will discuss my feelings with him at our usual meeting.” He moved his legs to the other side of the bench and began to play the piano again. The piece was Bach, a cantata transcribed for piano— “Schafe können sicher weiden.”

Tony was not satisfied. “You’re just going to let him, aren’t you?” Appalled, he shook his head. “You and Mrs. Ana told me again and again not to behave as though my actions do not have consequences.”

Jarvis stopped playing.

“Where are Father’s consequences?” Tony challenged. “I’ve never seen him strive to meet anyone’s expectations.”

“That, Young Sir,” Jarvis said, “is because you disagree with the expectations that your father is striving to meet.”

“Do you not?” Sorrowful anger coursed into his words. “You’re afraid of him,” Tony said. “Like everyone else.”

“Over the years I have chosen my battles with your father. I challenged him when necessary and conducted myself in a _respectable_ manner nevertheless.” Jarvis said. “I earned trust and made myself difficult to deny. It is a skill you'd behooved to learn, Young Sir.”

Tony flinched. Hurt deepened in him; he couldn’t stand the disapproval in Jarvis’s tone. He couldn’t bear to disappoint another parent. He paced the parlor but finally collapsed next to Jarvis on the bench. “I cannot understand you. Choose your battles? _That’s_ what you’re doing? What about this battle? What about _her_?”

Jarvis’s jaws trembled. He steadied himself. “I have spoken my intentions. I will meet with your father, my _employer_ , and request—“

“No, J!” Tony raved, slapping his knees. “You must do _more_ than that!”

Impatience ghosted Jarvis’s brow. “What would you have me do, Young Sir?”

“Dammit, J, fight!” Tony yelled. “What kind of fighter refuses to fight?”

“One who owns the choice and bears a responsibility.” Jarvis replied.

“A responsibility to _what_? You act as though you don’t care about her anymore!”

Tony felt the words rip from his throat. He glimpsed Jarvis’s face before the tears obscured him. However, Tony didn’t cry long; once he wiped away the initial tears, none replaced them. “Sitting here playing piano…” He grumbled.

Jarvis’s hand touched his shoulder.

“No.” Tony whined and shrugged him off. “How...?” His accusation trailed away. _How can you just forget her?_ He had meant to hurt Jarvis, to spur him into action. Yet, he couldn’t do it a second time.

“The responsibility to which I was referring, Young Sir, is to you.” 

Tony sighed, humbled, though it pained him. If Jarvis left, what would happen to him then? He, or Howard, or perhaps they both, would end up dead.

”Ana,” Jarvis said, as though reading his thoughts, “would expect us to rise up from the loss. She was not one to tolerate sullenness, you may recall.”

Frowning, Tony brought his elbow down on the piano keys and dropped his cheek onto his palm. Jarvis shooed his elbow from the keys. Tony complied but huffed bad-temperedly. Ignoring this, however, Jarvis began to play again.

“I find it a shame that your music education was so abbreviated. I doubt that you study composition at University.” Jarvis mused and Tony moodily shook his head. After a moment of playing, Jarvis removed his hands. “No matter. Why not show me what you remember from grade school?”

With a sigh, Tony lifted his right hand. He plodded through the upper clave of _Kinderszenen_ op. 15 no. 1 by Schumman. Jarvis joined with his left hand, giving full justice to the romping runs of the melody bar. He played the piece at its intended, spritely timbre. Tony corrected his glum pacing and fell in with Jarvis.

After a time, Jarvis’s voice coaxed him from his clinging armor of rage. “It is part of our jobs as the ones who loved her most to live lives of peace,” he said. “I cannot say that we will meet her again, but regardless of that fact, we shall have her for the remainder of our time on earth, here, in our hearts. Far be it from me to live violently alongside her memory.”

Tony gulped. He wasn’t sure he agreed with Jarvis. Yet, hearing the youthful music, in his childhood sanctuary, with the man who had always been his true father, in spirit if not biologically, Tony resolved that he would honor the choice Jarvis made. Tony trusted him, in that moment, just like many before, just like many times ahead, purely and sweetly, like a child.

“Much sooner than you think, Young Sir, you will be master.” Jarvis said. Encouragement was laced by sobering realism. He challenged Tony with the responsibility of his statement. “Of _yourself_ before all else. The decisions you will make may feel far into the future; however, you will begin to make them now, without realizing.”

“What do you mean, J?” Tony was helplessly curious despite his irritation at Jarvis’s “riddles,” as he thought of them. He left off playing.

Jarvis ended the song as well. He regarded Tony with an emotion that Tony didn’t recognize. “Tell me, how often when you spar is the bout dictated by your mental state going into the match?” He paused to let Tony think.

This was something that Ana did without fail. She gave Tony long, long spaces to think after asking a question. A serious question anyway— not a reprimand like “what in hell’s name were you thinking?” But it began when he was in the nursery and she would read books and ask him questions about what he thought a character felt, or, what he thought would happen next. For years he didn’t realize what she was doing. He thought the questions were rhetorical. So, he sat in silence and assumed her attention had wavered.

Mrs. Ana never answered for him or gave him hints as to what she wanted him to say. If he didn’t answer at all, she moved on without an answer, but she would ask again when they read that book the next time. Eventually, Tony began to share his own ideas or feelings or complaints or wonderings. So, when Jarvis asked him this question, Tony deconstructed his mind, like he would an engine, and sought an answer.

He didn’t like the answer, so he shrugged. “I suppose every single time, Jarvis.”

“It is difficult to _feel_ during a match. Difficult to guide your emotions from one track to another. Your brain is occupied entirely by thoughts of your actions. You have significantly more success if you examine and address your emotions before the bout begins.”

Tony considered this.

“So, too, before gaining power.” Jarvis insisted. “You will be free one day, my young man, and it will be easier for you now than later to choose who you will be.”

That sounded nice to Tony. It really did. He wished he could be even half the man Jarvis seemed to believe he could be. If he could make Jarvis proud, he would. It was idealistic, though, wasn’t it? He sat there as his stomach fell. He was cold throughout his gut with hopelessness; there were parts of him that even Jarvis didn’t know. Wouldn’t like. Couldn’t believe in.


	8. Carried to Avalon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony’s love for boxing only grew as he did. Ana and Jarvis both feared that Tony’s recklessness would lead him to danger.
> 
> Tony cares for Jarvis in his final hours, touching upon the relationship, loving and full of grace, they’ve had all the years leading up to this season together.

_June 1st, 1870_

_To Pepper,  
  
_

_Seeing how your last letter began with “Happy birthday!” I decided to wait to read it until my actual birthday day, so I read it on the train to New York. I am back at the old Posh Stronghold now, where I have time and space to write, and I have_ _much_ _more_ _to tell you than if I had written right away, even in a few short days!_

_I punched a man— a real colossus, too! My hand is still brightly bruised from it and tingles. He was a walking monolith, Pep! You would have been scared, I think. Well, I was, too, but I’ve trained in boxing, after all._

_What follows is what happened:_

_Mrs. Ana took me to Manhattan yesterday to celebrate my birthday and my successful first year away at the academy. She says she’s very proud of me. She arranged for us to go to the National Academy of Design. I spoke to Martin E. Thompson! If you are unfamiliar with who that is, he designed the very building the Academy of Design is in— The Arsenal. I told him about my designs and he showed real interest in my engine-powered platform for ascending and descending stories in a building._

_We left the National Academy of Design and Mrs. Ana was leading us toward Central Park; that’s when I spied a crowd of men down an alleyway. They were_ _boxing_ _, Pep— real, bare-knuckle boxing, the way Jarvis does, but faster and just more manly and dash-fire! I had never seen anything like it before. While Mrs. Ana was occupied at an ice cream cart, I slipped into a group of pedestrians and sneaked off to the alleyway._

_You’re probably saying to yourself that this was a gravely stupid idea, but, strangely, nothing has ever made better sense to me before that moment._

_I pushed my way to the front just as the victor won the match— he knocked out the other fellow_ _cold_ _! — then he called for challengers while they dragged the loser off to the side. Well, someone noticed me standing there, watching with everyone else. It wasn’t as though I was the only child there, but they started laughing at me and pulling at my clothes, asking what a “rich snot” like me was doing on that side of the shopwalls._

_Then someone else asked if I had paid for the show. It was obvious that none of them had paid any money. This was just some lowlife street fight, but they all were shouting about how I could afford it and that I ought to pay up before they “ran me off.” Someone tried to grab my shoes, too, talking about getting a good price for them._

_That’s when I planted my feet, the way Jarvis has taught me, and I clocked him on the chin. Must have really hit the button because he went down! I’ve never been so exhilarated. To be honest, though, Pep, I thought I broke my hand; it hurt so— more than I expected! I suppose the punching bag_ _would_ _absorb force better than a chin bone, after all._

_Everybody was quiet. Then, the man who won the match, this titanic brute, said I didn’t have to pay if I was a challenger. The crowd pushed me in and circled around us. I squared up, which he wasn’t expecting. He laughed but I landed a good one right to his sternum. Well, he didn’t laugh anymore afterwards. In fact he was quite hot about it. He said he wasn’t above giving “a babe a good anointing.”_

_But I didn’t make it easy for him; I was quick and dodged all around, minding my footwork like Jarvis taught me. I got behind him once and got a shot to the back of his knees. Nearly went to the ground, I swear! He raked me across the nose and upside my head a few good times, but I wish we could have finished the match, no matter how it ended._

_I say that because Mrs. Ana found me then, and she dragged me back to the carriage. But, Pepper, believe me: when I was in that ring of men jeering and rooting for the ape facing me, and I was fighting back against that Titan of an opponent, it was like seeing the Lady of the Lake, or being carried to Avalon! Like my_ _entire_ _life_ _transformed into this one moment of survival. I’ve never felt like I could hold my own before; I am not trying to say I would have won, but to even just have the ability to fight back— instead of standing there and taking it— it was indescribable, Pepper!_

_I think I’m meant to be a fighter. I’m meant to be a boxer._

_Anyway, maybe when you’re finally able to come to New York, you’ll see my name on a board for a prizefight and you’ll come cheer me on?_

_By the way, how’s your family?_

_Your friend,_

_T. S._

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

Tony listened intently to Dr. Pym as he instructed Rhodey and him on how to administer morphine to Jarvis. “There’re vials enough to last; and, I’ve just given him a dose. He'll likely sleep a way, exhausted as he is. It’ll be the pain what wakes him.” The doctor said and Tony bristled a little.

Tony muttered: “Your bedside manner is astounding as ever, Doc.”

Dr. Pym was nonplussed. “You can requite it, then, Stark, by paying good mind to his condition. Moving him didn’t do him any great favors, Christ knows, but I understand it was his wish.”

Rhodey interceded. “We’ll care for him, Doctor, and keep him comfortable.”

“I’ve little doubt.” Pym turned an eye on Tony. “I know he was a father to you. At this stage, there’s likely more you can do for him than I. Even so, I’m sorry I cannot stay.”

Rhodey answered. “Thank you, Dr. Pym.”

Pym nodded firmly. “Send for me nonetheless if you have a mind to.” He took a step but lingered. “Jarvis is a good man. His wife was a good woman.”

“You hardly need to tell me that.” Tony said. The bite had left his voice, though he remained decidedly aloof with the doctor.

Dr. Pym nodded. “One last thing and I know you’ll be loathe to hear it, but,” he said then cleared his throat. “The morphine— well, the more generously given… could help him sleep… longer, if he wished for it.”

Tony walked away, but said nothing. Rhodey told Pym goodnight and shook his hand. From the parlor, Tony only faintly heard their words. He stopped when he noticed Harley blending into the shadows in the corner, his eyes puffy and raw.

“Harley? Kid,” Tony stepped toward him. “What are you doing here?”

Harley sniffed roughly. More tears spilled down the tracks cut across his cheeks. “Please, let me stay.” He asked quietly.

Sighing, Tony closed the distance. He looked at Harley and grimaced painfully. Jarvis had devoted special time to Harley. Much like Tony, Harley was sensitive and hotheaded. Jarvis had allowed Harley to talk freely with him about any troubles. The boy had _plenty_.

“Listen, Harley,” Tony said gently, “I know Mr. Jarvis means much to you, but I thought you were going to retrieve Mrs. Stark and take her home. Happy’s already left with the cart.”

“I know, sir.” Harley hung his head. “It’s just…” He panted sorrowfully. “The next time I see Mr. Jarvis will be, be, well, the funeral, you know.” Harley couldn’t raise his gaze, but his voice became hopeful. “And maybe there’s something I could do for him, or for you, sir.”

Tony laid a hand on Harley’s shoulder. He let the boy sniffle a moment. Harley’s tone was unusually meek, Tony noted. He had no pretense about whether Jarvis would or could “get better.” His mind was compromised with definite tracks, hard lines, and clear “sight” —all of these Tony knew too well and knew the sobering agony of such a mind.

Yet, he was surprised by the mature grace with which Harley bore it. At this point, in his own youth, Tony would have made a joke or sarcastic comment. Or, even, sauntered around distractedly. Anything to wriggle out from under the weight of his thoughts. Here, Harley wanted to be helpful; Tony was filled with warmth for him.

“I can send a groom to Pepper,” Rhodey said from the doorway. Tony and Harley looked at him. “She’s at the Parker residence, right?”

Harley guiltily ducked his head. “Please, sir, I’m sorry—“

“It’s no trouble.” Rhodey replied with a small smile. He glanced at Tony, who nodded approval and thanked him. “Of course. Why don’t you go find Mrs. Barton and let her know that I sent you?”

Harley hesitated but followed directions. He tipped his head respectfully to Rhodey as he passed, gave a lingering glance back, then left the cottage. Meanwhile, Tony moved down the hallway and stood at the master bedroom door. His hands began to twitch. It wasn’t, however, the gentle motion of playing piano that he had seen Jarvis do since his childhood. It was more of a stridulating or malfunctioning.

Never before had he hesitated at this door. In fact, for the first time ever, he recognized his brazenness as a child. Since the night he had hidden in the thunderstorm and watched Jarvis and Ana sparring in the cellar, he had always strolled right into the cottage, into any of its rooms. If he wanted one of them, he would just open the door.

They never chided him or sent him away.

Tony felt Rhodey at his shoulder. “I don’t know how to do this, Rhodes.” He heaved a full-bodied sigh. “When Ana died,” he said, “I was away at school. And Howard— even if he’d wanted me at his bedside— was killed overseas. I don’t…” Letting another sigh take his words, Tony turned away from the door. “I don’t know what to do.”

Rhodey was quiet. “To be honest, Tones, I’ve never been in this situation off of a battlefield.” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck and searched for something encouraging to say. Coming up empty, he looked at Tony and apologized in a smile. “Be with him. He’ll tell you what he needs from you.”

At that, Tony actually chuckled. He turned and laid a hand on the doorknob. “I’m sorry. I thought you had met Jarvis before.” He jabbed sardonically, then opened the door.

  
  
  


_May, 1870_

Ana had long since thrown down both ice cream cones as she diligently searched the Park for Tony; yet, the viscous, syrupy cream that had melted onto the cuffs of her gloves was very noticeable as her hard palm smashed into the street fighter's nose. The smell of strawberries exploded into him, along with the white light of pain behind his eyes. The man stood a foot higher than she, and, as he flung back onto the tips of his feet, he towered almost another foot taller. The crowd of onlookers began to back away slightly, grins frozen in place. Ana didn’t shift until she was certain that the big man was not going to retaliate.

Tony sat, cast away, on the dirt. Even with his sight rimmed in pulsing rainbows, Tony somehow interpreted that Mrs. Ana had stepped between him and the figure that had been stomping him flat. He heard: “What kind of coward beats up a child?”

“Ask your brat who threw the first punch!” The man said. His huge hand indicated the crumpled body behind her.

Tony inhaled and a deluge of blood and mucus rushed his throat. It surprised him, but shouldn’t have; the fist that broke his nose had the weight of a collapsing building behind it. Tony blinked his addled brain back into order. He looked and saw Mrs. Ana staring into the man’s face; there was a purplish stream snaking down from his nose.

“And you girded yourself with courage and faced down the babe, did you? You Philistine!”

To Tony’s horror, he realized that the man he’d been fighting was reared up and bellowing at Mrs. Ana. “No woman calls me a coward. I don’t mind warming your backside and his well!” The brute stepped in, slinging a long jab forward.

But, Ana knew how to box a taller, stronger opponent. She ducked inside, close to his chest and struck him with an uppercut to the throat. Because she was so riled up, so fearful for her Little Mister, Ana lost a little control and wrathfully drove a knee to the man’s crotch. He collapsed like a windless sail. Whirling away—to calls of “look out, boys, nanny’s cross now!” and “easy, mend your bellows!”— Ana marched away and reached for Tony. 

Tony stared at her over a hand that was protecting his wrecked face. “Teach me to do that!” He exclaimed.

“It seems,” she said and snatched him up by his suspenders, “I have a few other lessons to teach you first!”

  
  
  


_December, 1871_

Since he had sent the footman to fetch Dr. Pym, Jarvis had the choice to continue his duties in the main house or return to Tony, at the cottage. He decided that the young man needed more time to cool, so he attended to the communication he had earlier begun, to the Stark family lawyers, and checked the progress on the cellar delivery that was underway. As high-spirited as Howard and his Christmas guests tended to be, Jarvis had little doubt that the extra imports of brandy and spiced rum he’d ordered a month ago would be warranted.

When these two tasks were complete, he pulled his muffler tight and donned his gloves, coat, and hat. Dr. Pym should not be long, he thought. As he walked, the snow banks commanded all the auditory stimuli of the world. Every noise that he usually heard on his way to his home was muffled and replaced by the crunch beneath his feet. _How very like my life now_ , he said to himself. _The gentle sensations I knew in my everyday have waned, replaced by the intensity of_ emptiness.

The garden was a similar illustration; the swathes of blossoms, the lush ivy, the sky dotted with birds— they’d been washed out and left bare. _Everything announces her absence_ , he thought, and then he unconsciously searched for signs of the garden again. 

He was rounding the menagerie and the stone fence was in sight, a dark contrast to the white. The blue and cream paint of the cottage walls added a little color to the scene, but the garden was practically lunar. And within the garden, he knew, her gravestone was exposed, hard, bleak.

Jarvis strayed from his usual path so he could glimpse around the back of the cottage, to where her gravestone stood alone. Come spring it would be snugly secreted away among the spires of hollyhocks. He would see to that. She’d endured enough in this stark world.

Jarvis spied the gravestone and his steps slowed. Tony was beside it, on his knees, he guessed (for he looked very small), and slumped against it. Jarvis had meant to show him her resting place after he had time to calm. He would also give Tony the bundle that Ana had left for him. Jarvis walked to the stone fence, not calling out for him, as it seemed indelicate.

However as he neared, dread began to turn his stomach. Tony had not acknowledged his presence in any way, though he must have heard the loud footsteps made by the iced snow. Jarvis saw that Tony’s shoulders were still and hoped that he was merely too distant to see them stirring with breath. He lengthened his strides. When he saw Tony’s hands, discarded on his lap, twitching, he ran.

The pallor of Tony’s face and and his blue lips sent a thunderclap of fear through Jarvis. Immediately, he was on his knees, hands on Tony’s face in an instinctual attempt to warm them. “Young Sir! Do you hear me?” Jarvis lightly slapped the young man’s cheeks. “Tony!” He called his name again and third time—

Not even a shudder passed through his face. Yet, deep inside him rolled an ugly retching sound. Bile rose into Tony’s mouth from his throat. Quickly, Jarvis tipped him forward so he would not choke on the sickness flooding his jaws. It spilled across the ground, causing steam to rise from its rose-gold stain on the snow in front of Ana’s stone.

Using a handkerchief, Jarvis swabbed Tony’s tongue and inside his cheeks, mindful not to obstruct his almost undetectable breathing. Then, Jarvis tore off his own coat and threw it over the youth, covering his head as well. Wrapping his arms around Tony’s shoulders and under his backside, Jarvis tried to lift him. He couldn’t feel Tony shivering and knew that he should.

“What in under Christ?” A gruff cry erupted behind him as Jarvis attempted to raise Tony. Dr. Pym rushed up, forsook his heavy, leather examination bag, and took hold of Tony’s legs. “Sure, but you might’ve waited inside, Mr. Jarvis!”

“I rather thought he _was_ inside.” Jarvis muttered, too frightened for his signature wit. His heart was strained, tight like a clothesline.

“Is this the Stark wain?” Dr. Pym asked, not being able to see Tony’s face. The empty sherry bottle dropped from Tony’s lap as the men shuffled him toward the cottage. “Aye, right. I can see the resemblance now.” Pym deadpanned.

Jarvis cursed in his head, but couldn’t speak. Dr. Pym was able to retrieve his bag with one hand before they labored inside. Tony was not so heavy as awkward. Jarvis propped him on a knee and grappled with the door until it opened. 

Pym directed him; “We’re going to lie him fernenst the hearth, there. Right. Trade me places.” Jarvis obeyed; Dr. Pym stationed himself by Tony’s chest and removed a stethoscope from his examination bag. He gestured towards the boy’s knees. “Remove any wet clothing while I have a listen to his pulse.”

After succinct examination, Jarvis clasped one of Tony’s boots and untied the laces enough he could wiggle it from his foot, then, he did the other. Memories flooded back to him as he held each of Tony’s stocking feet. Often he had removed his boots after some romp— especially during the trials for that godforsaken glider the young sir had constructed with his Ana.

Tony would run down an embankment, glider around his shoulders, and leap high, trying to make the other side of the stream. Ana stood watch; of course, she only _encouraged_ him. Afterward, he’d _sop_ , _sop_ , _sop_ into the cottage, drenched, and Jarvis would peel the waterlogged leather shoes and cotton stockings from his feet while the cheeky thing babbled about modifications to the glider. Ana would be laughing. 

Jarvis steeled himself and continued to attend to Tony. Thankfully, the socks were dry, though very cold. Jarvis reached up to Tony’s waist and unbuttoned the suspenders from his corduroy trousers. When they were tugged off, he felt the shins of Tony’s long-johns. The snow had soaked through where he’d been resting on his shins, but the cloth on his thighs was dry. 

Jarvis ripped the fabric at the knee. Pym noticed his struggle and instructed: “Shears in my bag.” Jarvis, using the scissors, was soon able stripped away the wet fabric down to Tony’s ankles. The clothes on his upper body felt dry except his outer coat.

Dr. Pym was visibly disturbed by the weak stirring he could hear in his stethoscope. Throwing it from his ears, he commanded: “Help me shuck the lad’s coat. It’s covered in snow! The rest seems dry enough we won’t footer over it.”

Once they had Tony settled— lying in front of the fire, on a quilt from the chair nearby— Jarvis marveled at how _slight_ he looked, how much like a broken reed tread into the ground. The illusion of bulk created by his winter clothes was shed along with them. Jarvis was nearly sick with compassion and dread at the sight. Dr. Pym snapped him back to attention. “Right! Now, fetch some blankets and be quick! Wool ones, preferably.”

Jarvis returned with an armful. He began to spread one over Tony, but Dr. Pym stopped him, looking up from the thermometer he held in Tony’s mouth. “How about your clothing? Dry?”

Surprised, Jarvis looked down at himself. He shrugged off his suit jacket, damp from snow, and patted his torso and trousers. “I believe mostly so.”

Dr. Pym checked the thermometer then hissed: “Jesus, saints, and all!” He rolled Tony so that he faced the fireplace. “I’m going to have you lie fernenst him and bundle up.”

Jarvis followed directions. With a hand keeping Tony rolled on his side, he lie down on the quilt next to him. Then he tucked an arm around the boy’s chest and held him close, so that he was flush with Tony's back. His other arm curled under to support Tony’s head. Dr. Pym covered them with two light blankets, tucking the wool under their legs, making a caterpillar’s shape, to keep out any drafts.

Jarvis willed his tense nerves to calm. He heard Dr. Pym mention heating a kettle for later use. “Allow me, Doctor!” He said, but didn’t move. How could he move, with Tony cradled beside him? Dr. Pym gave him a brief, irritated look that echoed his own thoughts. 

_This_ was his assigned role: hold the boy, share his warmth. Yet, he’d much rather bustle about, complete small tasks, and be a caretaker in the way he’d always known before. To be that physical comfort: constant, patient, playful now, gentle now— that was Ana’s role.

Was it his from now on?

“I spied thon bandaged hand.” Dr. Pym interrupted his thoughts. “Was that why you called me to begin?”

Jarvis murmured, subconsciously quieted, as though Tony was a child, sleeping. “That’s right, Doctor. I had feared it was broken on the middle and smaller knuckles.”

“Granted, it’s well you called,” Pym said. He snaked his stethoscope beneath the blankets and listened again to Tony’s heartbeat. “Why do you suspect it’s broken?”

“The swelling is considerable. The young sir was anguished and struck the wall.”

This elicited a long sigh from Dr. Pym. “Takes after his father, does he?”

“No.” Jarvis clipped, jaw hard. Even the crackle of the fire seemed to disappear in the wake of the harsh syllable. He relaxed when he saw Pym’s quirked eyebrows. “Forgive me, Doctor.” He said. “I would not say so, though, no.”

Pym chuckled slightly. “There’s a hierarchy to your loyalty, is there?”

Jarvis blinked. He felt the beginnings of a shiver in Tony’s frame. He held his breath, praying momentarily. His hand began to rub Tony’s chilled arm, an attempt to coax more shivering. This was the second time in the same day that he had held him. Whatever delusions of separation had existed before, whether incepted by social decorum or the excuse that Ana was the crux of their cobbled family, they vanished. Jarvis knew his heart was sealed with Tony’s, expectation or duty be damned. He’d just demonstrated as much with the doctor.

“It seems silly to deny it.” He replied finally.

Dr. Pym prepared the thermometer once again. “Sure, but this lad sits at the tip top of the order, I see.” He parted Tony’s lips and settled the thermometer under his tongue.

Jarvis knew the question was rhetorical. Yet, for his own sake, because his mind was decided, he answered in his head. _That’s right._

Perhaps not everything had left him. Ana had made them a family, but she could not be expected, whether with them or not, to keep them bound together. Jarvis still had a responsibility to Tony. Finally, he settled— even more, he tightened his hold. The significance of Tony’s weight against his chest made Jarvis wonder how he could have felt so empty before.

A whine escaped Tony’s throat after Dr. Pym had removed the thermometer. Unconsciously, Jarvis rested his head against the back of the boy’s. “Come back, Young Sir,” he whispered. _Come back. Come home. I’m here_.

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

Tony wasn’t ready.

He knew it.

In the dim lamplight, he stepped into the room despite this. He looked immediately toward Jarvis, in the bed. Jarvis was so worn away by age and illness— though he’d only been sick less than a week— that he was nearly only a spirit there. The smell of Vicks Pneumonia Salve bore a stronger presence. Jarvis barely caused a ripple in the sheets or a dip in the pillow.

Yet, his eyes kindled when they raised and found Tony, hovering shyly by the doorframe. His voice was choked, but Tony could still recognize him in it. “Forgive,” he gasped, “me if… I don’t… stand.”

“I’d forgive you faster if you didn’t speak.” Tony retorted, attempting to invoke his usual playfulness. He walked to the bedside. Letting his hand dance nervously on the edge, he said: “Why don’t you rest?”

The vials of morphine stood by on a nightstand, along with a syringe and capped needle. Tony tore his sight away from the cruel object. How ironic that he was to rely on it to deliver relief. Tony patted his sides then asked, “How are they treating you here, anyway? Comfortable? Are you thirsty or, or, or anything?”

Jarvis’s eyes were softened with what looked like sleep. Nevertheless, he smiled. His hand rolled toward Tony and Tony took it, grateful to have that anchor. 

With an almost electric pain, Tony realized that Jarvis was trying to stay awake for him— at least until he could see that Tony had calmed. So, he swallowed and schooled his features to compose. It was not the only trick he knew, but it was the oldest, so he employed it now; Tony deflected: “You know, J, when I was a child,” he said, matching Jarvis’s raspy whisper. “I would look at you and think that... you could not _possibly_ be _any older_.”

They both exhaled a ghostly laugh, like a relieved sigh. Jarvis coughed painfully while Tony gripped his hand, feeling as useless as he had feared he would be. But Jarvis recovered and quickly returned: “Having witnessed… your youth, Sir… I had a rather… similar… doubt.”

Tony laughed silently. With great effort, he fought the grief trying to steal his grin, corrupt it into something sorrowful, agonized. He hated how much energy it required for Jarvis to talk. Talking together was their great joy-- had been all Tony's adult life, ever since he’d graduated from the Polytechnic University, taken ownership of the Stark estate, and reunited with Jarvis.

Sinking onto the chair beside the bed, and keeping hold of the man’s hand, he said, “Sleep, J. I’m here if you need anything.”

  
  
  


_May, 1870_

Ana’s throat had ceased to be a throat. Instead, she was sure she now breathed through an inanimate structure. Perhaps an imaginary clay fist had tightened around her neck and been sintered there. Regardless, she could barely breathe and speaking was out of the question entirely.

Still hauling Tony by his suspenders, she steered them down 5th Avenue to the place she’d instructed the coachman to rendezvous with them. She hoped he was there; they were at least two hours earlier than planned. Once Ana had seen the carriage, with the driver snacking on fried oysters he bought nearby, she relaxed. She stole a glance at Tony, realizing he’d been quiet since she’d snatched him from the dirt.

Tony’s eyes were shadowed and wide as he tracked their swiftly moving feet. He knew he was in trouble; guilt and anticipation was written in every feature. The sight renewed Ana’s vexation. She had so much to say to him! The words crowded her mouth, but there they stayed. She feared that if she began she wouldn’t stop for a week. She couldn’t even guess what would make it out of her mouth first.

They reached the carriage and Ana released his suspenders. Tony stood looking at her expectantly. She was irked by the dour expression that was cementing on his face. So, she ignored him and pointed a shaky finger at the carriage. “In.” She nearly gurgled. Then she turned to address the driver.

Tony, however, wouldn’t be cast aside so easily. “It’s not my fault—“

Ana leveled him with a look. “I am not ready to talk to you. Get in the carriage.”

“I was pushed! I was pushed by the crowd!” Tony argued.

“All the way from the ice cream cart, were you?” Ana challenged. Her voice was sharpening as though his defiance were a whetstone. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

By this time, the driver had shuffled around the front of the carriage. He awkwardly held the wax paper bag in which his fried oysters had been served. His foot was apparently his main interest; he watched as it bored into the dirt.

“I just wanted to see them box!” Tony yelled. “Besides,” he added, desperately, “you were the one who was supposed to be watching me.” He knew long before he finished that sentence that it was a mistake, but his voice was moving faster than his brain.

Ana had to bite her lip very hard to remain quiet.

Tony tried not to act ashamed of his previous retort. He rubbed blood away from his mouth. It was drying and itched. Then, he ventured a glance at her. “I didn’t do anything wrong—“

Ana inhaled and stepped toward him. “Unless you care to have this conversation in public, Little Mister, I would have you get yourself into that carriage.” She turned and addressed the driver. “Find where the nearest doctor’s office is, Mr. Coulson.”

“It’s not going to be a conversation.” Tony sulked. The driver bustled away. “You’re just going to yell at me and I won’t get to say anything for myself.”

“On the contrary, Little Mister. I would be _very_ interested to hear what you have to say for yourself and what you possibly could have been thinking!” She tried once more to usher him into the carriage before she lost complete control of her temper. “And, I am trying to collect myself so that I _don’t_ yell at you. So, please— _get in the carriage!_ “

She’d held out very well, but lost grip on the volume of her last phrase. Tony was quick to point it out. “You’re yelling!”

“Well, I damn well am now!” She snapped.

“You’re so awful sometimes!”

Scowling, Tony climbed into the carriage and slammed the door. Ana took a moment to remove the sullied lace gloves she wore. Resisting the urge to throw them on the ground, she tucked them into her belt, then pressed both of her palms against her eyes. Her hands were pleasantly cool against her flushed face. Unfortunately, this was not enough comfort to alleviate the turmoil inside her head.

“I‘ve located a Dr. Wu nearby, Mrs. Jarvis.” The driver’s voice sounded by her side.

Ana allowed her hands to slide down her face and fall to her sides. “Very good, Mr. Coulson. Take us there directly, please.”

Mr. Coulson, a kind man, if socially obtuse, asked: “Is the young sir OK?”

Ana sighed. She glanced into the window of the carriage; Tony had slid to the other side of the seat, as far away from her as he could get. His shoulders rose like a plated chestguard, shielding his face. She knew he was crying.

 _What am I going to do with him?_ She thought helplessly. He was not in a mindset to listen to reason; if she tried to explain the wrongfulness of his actions, he would argue. Obviously she was not above arguing right back, she thought wryly. 

She could push— assert, debate, and impress her stance upon him. But, wouldn’t that feel just like standing in front of his father? _Especially_ if she continued to allow herself to lose control. Tony was right— she’d be yelling at him and he wouldn’t hear the words for the volume.

Should she explain how afraid she had been? How terror had never seized her so mercilessly before that moment when she looked and he was gone? Ana sighed. No. Wouldn’t that feel too much like his mother’s tactic? Maria used her emotions to shame Tony. That’s not what Ana wanted to do; she only wished for him to think about his actions before he got himself hurt.

“He will be.” She answered Mr. Coulson.

“Are _you_ OK, Mrs. Jarvis?” Mr. Coulson carefully asked.

She laughed. “Oh, Mr. Coulson…” If Tony could have seen her at that moment, he would have said she looked again like Jean d’Arc, or, Saint George, or even Arthur himself, impertinent and _sure_ , despite all weariness. “Millions of women have done this for thousands of years! I can surely muddle through.”

Setting her jaw, lifting her chest, she alighted the running board and climbed into the carriage. Tony didn’t react when her weight disrupted the balance of the carriage and she hadn’t expected him to. He didn’t have an attic to retreat to, so he closed off his body as much as possible, looking lonely and dejected. Ana felt her empathy for him finally blooming.

She took a quiet breath and began. “I’m sorry that I shouted at you, Little Mister.” His shoulder shifted but he otherwise ignored her. “It must be very irritating to be treated as a child just after feeling so grown up— or, what you consider grown.”

A sniffle, resentful, but unrestrained. The carriage pitched forward. The motion, the very idea of progress, was welcomed by them both.

“You are a child, though, Tony.” Ana said and finally turned toward him. “A child precious to me, one whom I intend to love and protect. And even if you did not mean to join that match — with a man twice _my size_ , I might add— you still chose to sneak away—“

“You wouldn’t have let me watch!” Tony interrupted. “You would— It doesn’t matter!”

“I promised you that you could explain yourself.” She said, quieting her voice. “I’m listening, if you want to go ahead.”

He huffed, and the end of the breath held a twinge of sound. “I just wanted to watch them box. That’s all.”

Ana considered her words carefully again; if she said that she would have taken him to see the match if he’d only asked, it might be too accusatory at this point. She continued. “There are safer places to watch boxing matches than the alleys of Manhattan, Little Mister. You realize what those men were doing was against law?” She waited for an acknowledgement.

Tony’s shoulders had loosen their defenses. He slumped backward and she could just glimpse his sullen face. Then he gave her a small nod.

“We may discuss attending one of the prizefights at the Huntington Sports Club _once_ I feel certain that you will make safe decisions on an outing again.”

Tony slung a look at her.

“I’ve given you a chance to talk, Little Mister.” She reminded him. “I’ll have you fix your face, but talk, if you want to.” 

“It won’t—I understand. I won’t do it again, so,” he said with a huff, “can’t we go soon?”

“As soon as you’ve shown me I can trust you on smaller excursions.” She said and he frowned. 

“You _can_ trust me.”

“Then show me.” She challenged. Shaking her head, she let herself display her fear at last. “In a city of this number... I found you this time, Tony, but what about next time? I cannot allow that to happen again.” She swallowed, feeling a stone of distress rolling in her throat, but resisting it. “I will never be able to abide you being hurt... or alone or afraid.”

Tony averted his gaze from her tears. He mumbled, “I’m alright, Mrs. Ana.”

Ana resisted the urge to force him to understand. Finally, she said evenly: “You cannot act as though there will not be consequences for your choices.” She reached over and tapped his chin, asking for his eyes. “For you or for anyone else.”

They seemed to share a sigh.

“So, what are my consequences?” He asked wearily.

Ana looked away, out her own window. “Besides having your block knocked off?” She scoffed then looked back, this time with a soft smile. “We’ve already established them.”

“Are we still visiting the zoo?”

She shook her head.

Tony sprung up at this. “Mrs. Ana!”

Ana shrugged. “It’ll be time to start home, Little Mister.” Her tone was almost apologetic, though any trace of that vanished with the next pronouncement. “Besides, you’ll need to talk Mr. Jarvis before too late in the evening and tell him that you disobeyed his rule against fighting again.”

A streak of lightning ran down from Tony’s brow to his jaw. Ana saw his wide eyes search her then drift away. At first, Ana took his unresponsiveness for flippancy. “You agreed to only punch the bag if he taught you to box.” She explained.

Shivering.

Ana stared at him in confusion. He’d become petrified, cold, within a moment. Was he afraid? _Of Edwin? Why on earth..._

With realization, she reached over and touched his shoulder. “You don’t need to worry, Tony. You’re only showing good faith by admitting your actions. Mr. Jarvis won’t even raise his voice. He’s much more restrained than I am.” She attempted a smile.

Tony returned it reflexively, like twitch, like an autonomic response. However, it disappeared almost as if it were an illusion all along. He was listening to something else— something in his own head. Ana began to regret saying anything. The carriage pulled up to the street side, then, and she set aside the thought. “Come, let’s attend to that face of yours.”

  
  
  


_December, 1871_

Tony began to shiver.

When Jarvis felt the weak tremors, beginning in the youth’s arms, he nearly cried out joyfully to the doctor. However, he waited, hoping it was not only his imagination. The shivers became violent and spread all throughout Tony’s body within a couple minutes. “Dr. Pym! I believe his body is starting to regulate again, sir.”

Dr. Pym was at the fireplace before them. He had put on a kettle of water. “Aye, that is a comfort.” He said soberly; Jarvis tried to hold on to his hope, despite the doctor’s restrained reaction.

After retrieving the thermometer, Pym checked Tony’s temperature again. This time he had to hold the jaws, protecting the glass instrument from Tony’s convulsing teeth. Everything was quiet as Pym counted out a minute in his head. “Nearly 95 Fahrenheit now, or, 35 Celsius, if you like. Either way, too low.”

Dr. Pym stood and removed the kettle from the hearth hook. “Keep him bundled. I’m going to lay a hot water bottle by his feet now the risk of shock is lowered.” He moved out of Jarvis’s sight, and entered the kitchen.

Within a moment, Tony’s quivering was joined by a high whine. “J? J?”

Jarvis realized Tony was calling for him and instantly drew him closer. “Yes, Young Sir. I’m here.”

“Where?” His voice came as though through a rotary.

Jarvis was taken aback. Could Tony not feel him? “I’m just here; I have my arm around you.” He took hold of Tony’s hand and pressed it. “See? Here I am.”

Tony began to struggle in an uncoordinated attempt to turn toward Jarvis, who removed his arm to allow Tony more freedom of movement. Finally, Tony was successful. Like a baby bird, he tucked his arms into his chest. His legs, too, he drew up until he was in the shape of a lime. Jarvis began to withdraw, a little unsurely, but Tony scooted into him, seeking his warmth and protection. 

“J, I’m cold.” His chopped speech broke piteously as he settled on the crook of Jarvis’s arm.

Dr. Pym approached them. “Is the wain conscious?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Tony mumbled, “It’s too cold. Will you start the fire?”

“The fire is going, young one.” Jarvis soothed. He looked up at Dr. Pym, looking for some confirmation that the boy’s disorientation was natural and would improve.

The doctor slid the hot water bottle, which was wrapped in a dry towel, by Tony’s curled feet. He made a noise as though considering his next steps, all the while casting a sharp eye on Tony. Finally, he spoke to Tony. “Hai, boy. I figure you’re of an age to follow directions?”

Tony’s eyes rolled from side to side, trying to locate the owner of the voice. He gave up and closed them again. Jarvis felt the ebb of self-consciousness returning now that Tony was awake. He slid subtly away. “Answer the doctor, Young Sir, if you’re able.”

Flatly, Tony answered, “No, I’m not.” The toneless delivery was upset by his persistent quaking— as though his voice traveled along a snapped bowstring.

Dr. Pym smiled ruefully and continued, despite the remark. “Aye, right. Well, I’ll be making you a cup of and I want you to drink it _all_. Got to raise your internal temperature.” He stood and strode toward the kitchen.

Tony nestled his head against Jarvis’s shoulder. “A cup of what? Who is that, J?”

“Dr. Pym, Young Sir, and you’d do well to show him more respect. He saved your life,” Jarvis said. He was disconcerted by the emotion that squished his voice into a croak at the end of this sentiment. Tony didn’t seem to notice. After clearing his throat, Jarvis attempted to remove his arm.

However, when Tony realized, he clove to Jarvis’s chest. “Don’t leave, J!” He sounded so young. “Please. I’ll be respectful, so…” Tony put his own trembling arm around Jarvis’s waist.

 _“_ That’s not _—“_ Jarvis embraced him again with a sigh. _That’s not why I was withdrawing_. “I only want to be sure I am doing what I can…” He spoke to no one; Tony was too confused to know what he was saying.

Why was he so embarrassed suddenly? The muck of social decorum, of separation, of the rules of how he should relate to the son of his master— not rightfully his son, no matter what he did or how he loved him— clung to his mind. It made him feel ill somehow. Anxious. All the while, he hurt Tony by trying to satisfy these expectations.

A groan escaped from the shivering youth. “My stomach hurts, J. And my head.”

Jarvis nearly murmured comfort, but—

“I drank too much,” Tony slurred and Jarvis stiffened.

It began with a twitch of his upper lip. He remembered the empty sherry bottle. It was still out in the tundra-like waste that had rendered this boy nearly lifeless. With a snap, anger invigorated Jarvis unlike he’d ever felt before. Betrayal, anxiety, fear, grief— all driving the rage into his chest. “Yes, I can hardly disagree, Young Sir.” Jarvis said tightly.

Tony seemed to respond to the sudden tautness in Jarvis— both his body and voice. Jarvis saw timid, perplexed eyes peer up at him. “Are you angry with me?”

Not trusting his answer, Jarvis remained silent. Consciously he endeavored to loosen his muscles, relax his face. However, the blueness of Tony’s lips— that broken-dawn blue— flashed before his mind’s eyes. The still chest with not even a sigh of life… the skin that began to puff like leavened dough, rising in the bowl— rising, but not with life… The horror was gaining, catching up to Jarvis now. 

He was _furious_ with Tony because of it.

Tony slipped his arm away from Jarvis. He folded it beneath him again and slunk away with childish humility. He was quiet, too, awakened a little more from his fogginess. In the back of his mind, Jarvis was pained to see it, but his frightened ire was much louder than this murmured empathy.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Tony’s whisper came finally, through chattering teeth. He wasn’t looking at him anymore.

There was only one other time Jarvis remembered Tony referring to him with this honorific. Something locked into place within him. Later, Jarvis wouldn’t be able to deny that he was funneling two months’ worth of cold wrath and mourning into his reaction to Tony’s careless self-endangerment. “Yes. I imagine so.”

The tone flicked Tony again; he flinched but then he scowled defensively.

The pressure in his chest peaked; Jarvis sharply inhaled. “Listen to me,” he said. “I do not want to hear of you taking another sip of alcohol until you’ve learned some _control_.”

Tony’s breathing labored. The edges of his eyes began to twitch. He withdrew farther, until his head was no longer resting on Jarvis’s arm.

Unpinned, and unconsciously taking the cue from Tony, Jarvis half rose. “Not a _sip_ . Is that understood?” He asked, looking down at Tony, who matched his confrontational glare. The pause sat between them like a bolder. “I need a _verbal_ answer, young man.” He blinked and shook his head. “Young Sir,” he amended.

“Yes,” Tony hissed, “Jarvis.” Then, he turned away, gathering the blankets in his fists.

“Very good, then.” Jarvis said. He stood.

At the other extreme of the parlor, Dr. Pym stood, intrigued by their exchange. When Jarvis noticed him watching, he bowed his head, a little abashedly. It must have been an incredible spectacle, the family butler rebuking the master of the house in such a familiar manner.

Also, he realized he had vacated his assignment without the doctor’s instructions. However, Tony obviously didn’t want him there; and, Tony was awake now and more and more lucid by the second. He hoped the doctor would understand.

Dr. Pym shared a knowing look and did not comment. Instead, he approached the cocoon of blankets in front of the fire and commanded Tony to drain the mug of warm drink he’d made. Tony sat up, his frame still shuddering, but refused the drink. “I don’t want that.”

Jarvis sighed; why was he so difficult?

Fortunately, Dr. Pym was a formidable physician. He withered the youth with a frown. “Belay that! Sure but weren’t you just snatched from the jaws of death, two sheets to the wind, and frozen in your own boke? You’ve acted the hallion enough for one day, now drink your cocoa like a good boy.”

Even Jarvis was a little put off by the doctor’s scolding. Tony may have acted foolishly, but he was not a child incapable of rationality. From where he was, Jarvis could not observe Tony’s face, but was almost certain that if the boy’s frigid skin would allow it, it would be scarlet with indignation. Dr. Pym, unaffected, nettled Tony again, although in a quieter voice now: “I can’t be doing with this carnaptious attitude. Have you not caused Mr. Jarvis enough trouble as is?”

There was a sharp recoil in Tony’s shoulders at this. He bowed his head and it inclined briefly toward the kitchen, toward Jarvis. At last, Tony took the mug.

“Is there anything I should do, Doctor?” Jarvis asked, trying to keep his voice even. Now that he’d abandoned Tony to keep himself warm in the blankets, Jarvis felt useless. His empty hands felt stupid. They played their invisible piano, frantically.

Pym had his stethoscope to his ears. He shook his head but then changed his mind. “You might prepare another cup.”

Thankfully, Jarvis turned to flee the room. Before he crossed into the kitchen, he heard Tony mutter, “Praise be! This cocoa’s awful. Can you make it with cream, J?” Tony had not looked toward him, but he had not glanced long over his shoulder at the boy, either.

“As you like, Young Sir.”

  
  
  


_May, 1870_

Tendrils of melody fell away from his fingers as Jarvis played the piano. The cottage was quiet except for his music. He had so few moments of solitude in his life that filling them was always an awkward exercise. He usually ended up at the piano, and more and as he aged.

The evening was wearing on and he expected Ana back soon from her outing with the young sir. On the table, their dinner waited in covered dishes. He’d set three places, not knowing if he should expect Tony to join them or not. Maria was away, staying in the city with an acquaintance, and Howard was _unlikely_ to dine with his son alone. 

Tony often snuck away to the cottage in the evenings, though it vexed Maria. Still, tonight he was bound to be tired. They had quite an agenda planned, he knew. Either way, Jarvis prepared his place; it was just as easy to return unused dishes to the cupboard. Tony liked to see the table set to include him, even if he didn’t eat.

Jarvis shook his head, realizing his thoughts. How improper to eat before the son of the master of the house. Improper, but wonderful, and natural, and right. One could almost assume that they were just the Jarvis family, sitting at the table, in their own countryside cottage, hidden in the garden. And, if Howard hadn’t needed an heir...

No. No, he couldn’t allow that thought to finish.

Again, he focused on the piece he played, an aria transcribed for piano, Handel’s “Ombra mai fu.” Eyes closed, he allowed his hands to guide themselves; this was one of the pieces he knew without the sheet music before him. Meant to be played in shadowed quietude. Besides, there was peace in the shade of his closed eyelids.

A small hand touched his shoulder. “Mr. Jarvis.” The voice spun like a plate on a stick.

Jarvis had to twist on the piano bench to see Tony, who stood directly behind him, very likely trying to hide, despite everything. The bandage over the boy’s nose was conspicuous as a wine stain on white cloth. Jarvis was wrenched from the peace of his daydreaming. “My word! Young Sir, I rarely see you in such condition after your escapades _outside_ civilization — how did you manage this at the Academy of Design?”

Tony ground his teeth silently.

“Are you alright?” Jarvis asked. He stood from the bench, meaning to offer his help, but Tony drew back.

“Edwin.” Ana spoke gently from the kitchen entryway. “He’s trying to talk to you about something.”

The incline of her head told him to sit back down, decrease his presence. He did so and saw the expression on Tony’s face: reddened, rough. “I’m listening, Young Sir,” he murmured, encouraging him.

Tony’s tongue snapped loudly and he broke into an agonized rant. “I disobeyed you. About fighting. Again. I saw some men boxing in the alley and wanted to watch, but I thought Mrs. Ana would say no, so I snuck away from her, only, the men began to harass me and I punched one on the chin and another one challenged me so I started fighting him, too.” 

Tony paused to gasp. Jarvis, heart softened, glanced at Ana. However, she seemed to be abstaining from this conversation for the moment.

“And the brute broke my nose and tossed me to the ground and was stomping on me when Mrs. Ana finally found me. And I made her have to fight to protect me,” — here, tears spilled over— “even though she could have been very hurt. And I don’t need you to tell me that what I did was wrong! I know. I know, I understand, and I really do not need you to explain why I should be ashamed of myself. I already am! So, so, please just— I’m ready for my consequences, but don’t, don’t yell at me! I— I—“

Jarvis looked helplessly at Ana. He felt unequipped and yet assigned some pivotal role. It did not escape him that Tony was afraid. The boy was slowly unraveling, expecting a fight, expecting to be shamed, expecting punishment. To be frank, though, Jarvis could scarcely imagine anger. Above all else, instead, was the urge to gather up Tony and calm him.

Ana was staring at Tony, also concerned at the boy’s increasing distress. She slowly leaned closer, ready to intercede, but she held out for now. It seemed that she agreed with him that this was his test— that Tony was waiting on him for something specific. If she offered it, it wouldn’t have the same effect.

This had to do with Howard. And, because Jarvis was male— or, because he was something of an authorial figure to the boy, it was up to him to provide this— either _confirmation_ — or _redemption_. But, how, exactly?

Then, Jarvis noticed something. Keeping his voice low as a lullaby, he said: “Never lock your knees, Young Sir, remember?”

Tony startled and regarded his knees. They were clenched tight as fists. He remembered briefly the time he’d done this while training with Jarvis in front of the punching bag. He’d awoken to a white light, back on the cellar floor, head on Jarvis’s knees. 

Following the familiar exercise of breathing and stilling himself before training, Tony relaxed. Jarvis watched. Then, he said, “It seems that if you do not require me to explain anything, my attempt to do so would only be a frustration. I don’t believe any of us need that.”

When Tony looked back at Jarvis, finding the collected and patient face he knew so well, he whispered, “I just don’t want you to be angry with me.” More tears fell.

Jarvis swallowed. His heart cried out for the boy. This went beyond fear of punishment. Tony feared being rejected by Jarvis. Never before had this seemed too much a concern; certainly, Jarvis knew Tony craved Ana’s validation, but never considered Tony would be so heartbroken over _him_.

Ana cleared her throat quietly and retreated into the kitchen. This moment was reserved for him and the young sir. Jarvis sighed internally; he wished she would have stayed. Tony also seemed to notice her exit, though he wasn’t turned that way. He began to shift nervously again.

“While I don’t believe you can help what people feel, beyond minding your own actions,” Jarvis said carefully, “I do hope you know that I care greatly for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

The meek reply melted Jarvis even further. He thought for a moment, then, he added: “It seems your interest in boxing has grown very strong.” This earned a nod. Jarvis returned it. “Perhaps it would be appropriate to study it more as a sport than just exercise from now on.”

Tony’s head snapped up; slowly, his mouth fell open. “You mean you’ll teach me to spar? Like a real boxer?”

Jarvis grew stern. That overeager look on Tony’s face reminded him of the risks involved in this. Yet, wasn’t the impertinent youth already getting himself into trouble— and in illegal, back alley fights of all places? “Only as a sport.” Jarvis declared. “And only with me to begin with; when you’re of age, we will see about a membership at the sports club.”

Tony leapt at him. Arms were thrown tightly around his neck for just a brief moment. Then Tony retreated, scared, perhaps, to hold on too long. He began jabbering excitedly while Jarvis looked on in exasperated amusement.

Jarvis glanced to the kitchen and found his Ana there. Arms crossed and brow quirked, she nevertheless smiled at him. “Supper will be cold soon.” She remarked. “If your conversation is over, why don’t we all sit down together?”

  
  


_January, 1903_

Around eleven-forty that evening, after Jarvis had slept for a considerable time, his breathing became tortured. Tony had been running a cool cloth over his temples and neck for the past hour. It seemed that the fever would never break again. Jarvis began quaking.

“J?” Tony asked. He lowered the cloth back into the bowl and set both aside.

Breathy syllables bucked from Jarvis’s mouth. “Not... one… to complain…”

Tony was already preparing the syringe, securing the needle to the barrel. “I’ve got you, J. Hold on.” He inserted the needle into a vial of morphine and filled the barrel, as Dr. Pym had instructed. Holding his breath, Tony pushed back Jarvis’s right sleeve and looked at the veins at his inside elbow.

There were two minutes between the injection and the quieting of Jarvis’s shakes. Meanwhile, Tony was silent, alert. He offered Jarvis some water once relief had flooded Jarvis’s features. Tony lifted and held his head; his other hand raised the cup to Jarvis’s lips. Guilt had long settled on Tony, though he couldn’t articulate what he had done, or even what was in his power, to cause this suffering. Somehow, it just seemed like his fault.

As though Jarvis was attuned to his anxiety, he said, “Thank you… flowers.”

Surprised, Tony looked around the room at the potted delphiniums, the tall spires of foxglove and larkspur. “Oh.” Inside, in this dim light, they did not resemble Ana’s garden any more than a funeral parlor. “Yes, well. Pepper helped. She began growing these plants back a month or so. If it wasn't for her…” He sniffed.

Jarvis smiled.

Tony swallowed then he smirked and met Jarvis’s gaze. “Do you remember when I introduced Pepper to you for the first time, as my fiancée? She still talks about that.”

Jarvis gave a throaty sound of acknowledgment. He was slowing down. Tony, to compensate, began to speed up, to increase in presence. Trying to keep the feeling of them, together, going, like the coal furnace of a steam locomotive.

“Do you remember when, uh,” Tony said and chuckled, “Rhodey called you to Boston, behind my back, to see me in the prizefights? Or, that time you told me I had to take over Stark Industries _or else_ — that’s basically what you said, let’s face it.”

Croaking, Jarvis couldn’t resist commenting. “Recall it… differently… but…”

“I don’t want you to leave, J.”

“Not..” Jarvis gathered his strength. He could feel it, all raked up in his stinging chest. He pushed it through the mechanism of his throat. The resulting sound was as close to his voice as he would ever manage again. “...leaving you, Tony… No more... than any father … eventually... leaves his... son.”

Jarvis collapsed back. The effort had wrecked him. Tony, ever more guilty, bit his lip in apology. He ran a hand over the back of Jarvis’s. A sardonic grin quirked on his face.

Shaking his head, Tony laughed at himself. He said in a mock accusation: “It’s not fair... Rhodey’s waiting right outside. He’ll laugh if he sees my face like this.”

Jarvis smirked reassuringly. He spoke, just a rasping whisper again, “Tell him… I … cried, too.”

Time wore on and Tony applied a fresh layer of Vick’s Pneumonia Salve to Jarvis’s collar. He tried to hide his amusement that Jarvis couldn’t make too much a fuss about it. Then, his amusement failed, and he was filled with sympathy. However, Jarvis remained as graceful as ever, even in his convalescence.

“Tell me…” he sighed after a while. “About the young sir.”

Tony blinked. Finally he had to ask, “I’m sorry?”

“Young Peter.”

“Oh, he’s good... He’s working to produce a particular glaze, something he calls a ‘peach bloom.’” Tony recapped the salve. A stray smile crossed his face. “He was actually attempting it back when I first met him. You remember those door handles on the second level? Those were a failed attempt at the peach bloom glaze; though they were beautiful enough in and of themselves.”

At Jarvis’s nod, Tony continued. “He’s a silly thing, but there’s no apparent end to his talent or intelligence.” Tony pulled a wry expression. “Afraid he’s not too happy with me at the moment.” He paused and Jarvis lifted his eyebrows in encouragement. “How did you get me to listen to reason when I was young?”

Jarvis’s body wanted to laugh; he grinned genuinely, but erupted into coughing. Tony muttered, laying a hand on his shoulder, “Sorry, J.” But, Jarvis waved him off and settled after a moment. His eyelids closed, revealing the distressed violet pooling there. Tony thought he may be falling asleep again.

However, Jarvis spoke again, in single sigh, before drifting into slumber. “Proud of you.”

  
  
  


_December, 1871_

Tony flipped the wool blanket from his feet. He sighed before standing upright, unsteady, but only fleetingly. Jarvis had not returned from the kitchen for a long, long time. Dr. Pym was gone; he had stayed until Tony’s temperature was at a stable 97.5 Fahrenheit. Then, with some brief, gruff, instructions, he left Tony in Jarvis’s care.

Yet, Jarvis was avoiding him; Tony knew. He hadn’t strung two sentences together for Tony since the doctor left. So, Tony assumed, was the depth of Jarvis's disappointment in him. After treating Tony so kindly, so tenderly... Tony had ruined it. Bitterly, he pushed himself to walk across the parlor. His shins, exposed, shone in the firelight.

He reached the doorway to the kitchen and peeked inside. Jarvis stood at the kitchen table, gripping its edge, eyes shut. He seemed like a monk in the throes of prayer. But Tony’s breath caught when he saw — tears ran and ran and ran silently down Jarvis’s face.

Breaking from the sight, Tony stood with his back against the wall. What had he done? He shouldn’t be here; he should leave. Dr. Pym’s accusation sounded in his ears. _You’ve caused Mr. Jarvis enough trouble_.

Tony hugged himself then pushed away from the wall. Lopping around the parlor, he searched for his coat, hat, and gloves. He didn’t remember the last time he had them; he remembered having at least his coat while at Ana’s... There was a sound from the kitchen and Tony cursed inwardly. He hastened his search.

Realizing that Jarvis probably put his things away, Tony groaned. Usually, Jarvis hung his things in the guest bedroom. He had to force himself to turn the door handle. He braced himself for what he might see. _I'll just grab my things_ _quickly_ , he thought.

The air met him, smelling of honey and lavender and mothballs. Everything looked as it had when he was here last summer. Like a sacred ritual, Tony took in every detail. The washstand, the field guides on the nightstand, the iron bed frame, the floral-patterned quilt... He paused, however, and stared at the bed. A bundle, wrapped in brown paper, sat on the foot of the bed, waiting for him. A tag attached to the coarse string read: for my Little Mister.

When Jarvis searched for Tony, not ten minutes later, the bundle of brown paper remained there, in the boy's bedroom. But, Tony’s winter clothes, which had been hung in the wardrobe, were gone.

A little note on the nightstand said: “Sorry for the trouble. —T.S.”


	9. Standing by the Luck of Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Ana’s death, Tony’s reckless and self-harmful tendencies begin to peak. Jarvis, however, fully accepts his role as Tony’s father figure, despite everything that had kept him thus far reluctant. The grace he extends toward Tony battles to outmatch the young man’s self-destruction.
> 
> In the present, Tony shows signs of the man Jarvis knew he could be. Facing the death of the man whom he needed his entire life, Tony has the chance to resist the unhealthy coping methods of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: violence typical of bare-knuckle fisticuffs; mentions of alcohol abuse, including underaged drinking; verbal child abuse

_November, 1877_

Tony felt the unforgiving stake against his back, raking him slightly as he dropped onto the stool. His busted knuckles tickled in this state of euphoric disorientation. Later, though, they would need to be mollified with laudanum. The hive of moving bodies in the sports club droned dully. The excitement of the spectators echoed every sensation, enthralling or painful, within him.

 _Better than sex_ — his usual wry mantra played, as though on a gramophone, echoing in his chest. His right hand searched for the jug he kept in his corner. All he succeeded to do, though, was catch his wrist drunkenly on the bottom rope several times. He tried to clear his vision, stretching the eyelids of his right eye against a swelling pocket of blood beside it.

Rhodey’s voice entered his ear. “How many trains do you plan to let run you down today?”

Tony felt a cool glass jug pushed into his grasp. He laughed wetly, as though the sound was bleeding, too. A damp rag passed over his forehead. “Hush, Mama Hen, they’re only _men_.” He hefted the jug to his lips, but was panting too hard yet to drink.

“Yeah, so are you.” Rhodey muttered, running the cloth over the back of his friend’s neck.

Finally able to take a swig from the jug, Tony ignored the comment. Then, he sputtered. “This— this isn’t mine.” Tony craned his neck, looking at the ground.

“No, it isn’t.” Rhodey took the opportunity to towel Tony’s right brow, swiping the goose egg only slightly more tenderly.

“Where’s the jug I had?” Tony puffed, hearing the 30-second bell clang. He needed to get back to his mark; his legs lifted him on instinct. “What’d you do with it?”

“Someone’s holding onto it for you. Drink the water!” Rhodey insistently pushed the jar toward Tony’s face.

“Why would you move it?” He resisted.

The official and Tony’s opponent stood in the ring’s center; he could hear the official calling. _Four seconds_.

“Because you should not be in that ring in this condition and I’ll _tell_ the official next time there’s moonshine in your corner.” Rhodey emphasized the threat with a glare. “You’re going to get killed.”

Instead of drinking the water, Tony dumped the entire jug over his head and back, feeling it separate from the feverish perspiration there. He sauntered backwards, as the official gave him two seconds’ warning. The jug landed heavily at Rhodey’s feet. “Save the undertaker a step.”

The official deemed him up to scratch and signaled for the bell. His opponent, blond and broad and svelte, stood more than a foot taller, his shoulders wider by half that, and his countenance that of not only an older man, but disciplined, _military_. For all anyone could guess, he was a soldier stopped over in Boston. 

Battered around his calm face, he nevertheless didn’t seem inclined to quit. Likely, he could have toppled an oak with his jab. His stance was nearly unyielding.

Tony was stockier and coarser, but faster, … Very obviously, he was younger, as well. His twenty-year-old body was still curved here, but cut here— soft there but hale, overall. The impact of his strikes couldn't have measured that of the blond’s according to any law of physics. However, he was as tenacious a swarmer as the club had ever seen.

Over the past two years, he’d won an impressive career, bombarding opponents to the point they couldn’t breathe. What the blond could not rival was the charisma of Tony’s form. He was passionate, eager, overwhelming, and, with the moonshine firing through his brain, _brash_ and _stupid_. 

_Deadly_ — not least of all to himself.

Such was Jarvis’s anxious assessment from his place among the spectators. He gripped the ceramic jug on his lap, the acrid smell of corn whiskey wafting up. As Jarvis watched, he gradually loosened his hold on the vessel. He set down the jug two rounds later. The round after, he was on his feet. But, Tony was on the ground.

  
  
  


_January, 1872_

The light filtering through the smoke-filthy window of the hotel car stung Tony’s eyes. He submitted to the discomfort, blinking slowly. Stubbornly, he pressed his forehead against the rattling pane, wishing he were still in bed. Why did he need to take the 5:30 train? Couldn’t his parents wait until after breakfast to ship him off to the academy?

The holiday had been a strain on everyone’s resilience. Maria appeared to be attempting a maternal role. The charade made Tony scoff. _Little late_. Yet, he somehow still accepted the attention, all the while feeling ashamed for it.

Howard had wreathed himself in rowdy associates. They played billiards or darts in the smoking rooms and called for Tony every so often to measure him up against themselves in some way. Could he hear a raunchy story without blushing? Could he tell one? Could he hit a curve shot? Could he drain a tumbler of scotch whiskey or rum or vodka?

He had not talked to Jarvis, beyond routine interactions, all throughout his stay at home.

Tony suspected that Jarvis wanted to speak with him— wanted to address their discomfiture and what had happened at Ana’s gravestone, but Tony made certain that they were never alone. He knew Jarvis would not broach the subject without privacy. And, Tony couldn’t bear it. This often meant answering Howard’s invitation to be an entertainment for his guests. It was abhorrent. Tony rapped his head against the train car’s window at the surge of mortified rage.

_“Come on, Howard!” Mr. Stane’s booming voice. “The boy’s balls aren't heavy enough yet.”_

_“Have the nurse bring him up some milk…” Another man, slovenly after hours of their debauchery._

_Howard refuted their comments. “No, it’s time he was weaned! Why, at his age, I was having a glass with dinner every evening.”_

But, those voices didn’t belong to the past three weeks. He had been twelve when he heard them. Jarvis, who was always present when Howard’s associates were visiting, had clicked his tongue, signaled Howard with a discreet flick of his eyebrow, and tried to divert any escalation. Tony was resentful— of Jarvis’s meddling, of the men’s baiting, and his own childish insecurity. He shot the whiskey down his throat like a bullet. It returned, into an empty fireplace, like a hailstorm.

Ever since leaving the Jarvis cottage, after nearly freezing to death, _after vomiting on Mrs. Ana’s grave_ , the hair on his neck would rear up when a glass was pressed in his hand; he spared glimpses toward Jarvis when he raised it to his lips, remembering Jarvis’s prohibition. _Not a sip_. But, of course, the butler’s face was impassive; his eyes, indifferently gazing toward the opposite wall. The sight of detachment drove sobs into Tony’s jaw. He fell helplessly into angst and drank the liquor, receiving Howard’s mild approval.

When he had been twelve, retching into the bare-stone fireplace, Jarvis’s warm hand rubbed his back. “Better to expel it all, Young Sir, if you’re able.” He murmured, the only sound in the empty room where he’d carried Tony. 

Tony leaned on Jarvis’s arm, coughing, nearly crying. Jarvis combed back his hair in a motion that also quelled the dizziness. “You’re doing well. Good lad... Good lad.” He didn’t lecture Tony. Always, always, he forgave too easily. Could it be that he didn’t expect enough from Tony?

“Well! I was given a son after all.” Howard had wandered in as the boy projected whiskey from his traumatized throat. Tony discerned his entrance with terror. Unconsciously, he shrank against Jarvis’s chest-- but lunged forward to retch again. His father made a small, pitying harrumph. “I didn’t think he’d be so susceptible to it.” Howard remarked.

Tony knew what Howard hoped to accomplish— to refine him. He was slicing away the impurities like a pearl diver did his prize. Once he was rid of deficits— perversions— he would be unveiled, a perfect reflection of his father’s image. A testament of superiority meant to outlast him. Someday, at least; but, for now, he was only a cut out figure in a shadow play.

Jarvis stiffly inhaled. His soft reassurances became quieter. Howard retreated, with a lingering hum. When Tony finally spit and glanced up, Jarvis’s face, gaze askance, was severe. Silently, he wiped Tony’s face with his handkerchief; then, he began to sweep out the hearth. 

Tony fled.

For a long time, he was miserable. He hid in the attic, thinking Jarvis was cross with him for vomiting and soiling the fireplace. It wasn’t until Ana discovered him, and reassured him, that he left. “Mr. Jarvis is not angry with you,” she said. “You should not have been given that glass; he is angry at the man who pushed it into your hand.”

 _The man_ … And there it was again. Howard was a man; Tony was something lesser. Impotent. Defenseless. How many nightmares had he had recently in which Howard was over him? In which his hand or knee pinned Tony down? Tony punched and jabbed but the strikes never landed...

The train picked up speed; the rattling glass became too much for Tony. He leaned back against the cushioned bench and stared at the underside of his sleeping bunk. Fortunately, his compartment was empty except for him. This early in the morning, there was not high demand for hotel cars; the journey to Boston, in particular, was short enough. _No stories from middle-aged businessmen_ , he thought, thankfully. He just wanted to be alone.

There was a knock on the door. Tony sighed. It was probably an attendant, offering some service or other. They were becoming more and more ridiculous. Ignoring it did not work; another knock came a moment after. “Thanks, but I’ve no need to have my shoelaces evened or my hat dusted or whatever else.” He called in a tested tone.

“Considering the journey’s only _just_ begun, that is a relief, certainly,” Jarvis’s voice returned.

Tony jolted, heart suddenly racing. “J? What are you doing here?”

“Might I come in to answer?” Jarvis quipped, through the car’s door. “This seems a bit undignified.”

Tony hopped from the bench. Exasperated, he said, “Of course! Come in!” and the door opened. Jarvis, wearing a casual, traveling outfit, thanked him and entered. In his hands was a package that Tony recognized. Tony stammered: “Wha— J— th-the train’s moving!”

Jarvis glanced out the window at the passing countryside. He hummed, almost contentedly. “Yes, Young Sir, they typically try to keep to their schedules. Were the train still at the station, passengers in Stamford would be quite inconvenienced.”

Tony stared at him. He took in the sight of Jarvis in his long wool coat and wide-brimmed hat. He seemed very ordinary, standing with Tony on the train. “Are you _going_ somewhere?” Tony asked and Jarvis let slip a smile at his incredulousness.

Jarvis breathed a sigh, still watching the scene outside. “I thought I might take a day trip. I haven’t had a holiday in some time.” He turned his eyes to Tony. “And I wanted to speak to you, before you left for the spring semester. May I join you, briefly?”

“I—“ Tony felt the shattered apathy of his solitude fall away. As he lowered himself onto the bench, his awkwardness seemed to clack against his joints, like door clappers, announcing itself. He nodded.

Jarvis sat, giving him room; still, Tony felt warmth radiating from him, a comfort in the drafty train car. Jarvis laid the brown paper package on his lap. Without any further pretense, he spoke. “Please forgive me,” he said, “for addressing you so harshly that day. I have no right to forbid your actions. I am not your—“

“J, please!” Tony shook his head. His throat bobbed. “I acted like a fool and that’s the end of it.”

Jarvis lowered his voice. “The foolishness did not end with your choices.” Then he paused so long that Tony looked at him. Though his face was tearless, it trembled, resembling itself the night Tony discovered him bowed over the kitchen table. Finally, Jarvis cleared his throat, turned to him, and Tony heard his breath catch. He tenderly brushed a thumb over Tony’s cheek. “I thought I would lose you, Little One. And, I did not behave well under that fear.”

Though he wanted to insist on Jarvis’s innocence, Tony didn’t. This conversation needed to end; it hurt too much. Perhaps, if he didn’t feed into it, it would. Feigning nonchalance, he shrugged. “I am sorry that I frightened you— and just after you had— _lost_ Mrs. Ana, and— and, your son, or, daughter.”

There was silence. Jarvis regarded him strangely. Hinging back and forth, his jaw attempted to form a reply. “My Ana’s death… or the proximity of it… had no bearing on my reaction. I would never wish to lose you. No matter when or how.”

Before Tony could react beyond a quick swallow of his tight throat, Jarvis lifted the paper-wrapped package and changed the subject. “I realized that you may not have wished to accept this while there were uneasy feelings between us. I hope you can receive it now, in peace.” He proffered the bundle and Tony, obediently, took it.

As though the bundle had anchored him, Jarvis stood. “I will take my leave now, Young Sir. I have a seat in Passenger Car C, if you require me. Perhaps we may take lunch together later.” He smiled and the significance of his invitation, willful breaking of their societal barriers in public, was not lost on Tony. Then, Jarvis excused himself.

Left alone, Tony sighed and rubbed the tag — “For my Little Mister”— between his fingers. He contemplated putting the bundle away, under the bench, or on the bunk over his head. Jarvis’s assumption had been right; he couldn’t bring himself to open the package— so like a gift— when Jarvis was angry with him, as he’d felt. However, there was more to his reluctance.

It seemed that Mrs. Ana was trying to say goodbye.

Yet, how long could he resist her? It was no easier now than it had ever been. He pulled on the waxed string holding the brown paper closed. Unwrapping it slowly, he revealed several large portfolio sketchbooks and folded, blue architect’s paper. Of course, as he dreaded, there was a letter tucked within the leather face of the first portfolio binder. Mrs. Ana said her goodbye.

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

Peter stared at Tony’s haggard face in disbelief. “Mr. Stark, are—?” He said, but stopped. There was too much to say. Half his thoughts were scattered, either somewhere behind him, still down the hallway, fumbling, or, somewhere far ahead, on his mentor’s proud face when he told him that he would honor Tony’s wishes for him to attend school.

He was so happy to see Tony— he felt his spirit lifting— and yet… 

The other half of his mind was mired in concern. His mentor stood, windlashed, grayed, and burdened. A frazzled energy thrummed around his eyes and in his hands, but otherwise, his skin hung heavy from the bone. Peter nearly reached out to steady his leaning frame. This was not his longed-for chance to reconcile with Mr. Stark after all.

“Hmm?” Tony prompted.

“I— I would love to, sir, but...” Peter paused again. “Are you sure?” He let the sound dangle, hoping it was clear what he meant. Tony, it seemed, was pretending, willfully detached from the painful reality that must be. Peter didn’t want to be the conduit, the door through which that reality entered— returning only to hurt Tony.

“About putting on boots and something more than pajamas?” Tony quipped. “I’m _very_ sure; in fact, if you’re not in too much of a hurry, at least step off the ice, kid.” Pushing gently with gloved hands, he steered Peter back into the house. He followed, listening to Peter blunder.

“No, I mean, are you sure— right now—? I thought you were,” Peter hedged. “With Mr. Jarvis?”

Tony nodded, twirling toward the coat rack to disguise a sigh. “I was, but...” He paused, hefting a breath like a heavy responsibility. “I have some time, and I remembered that I had promised to take you to the University library.”

“Sir,” Peter said, watching him shrug off his coat. Knots formed over Peter’s brow. Meanwhile, Tony shoved his speech between them.

“I feel awful about not following through on that.” Tony trailed.

“Really, you don’t need— Shouldn't you be—?” Peter spoke up, but Tony’s dialogue trod over him still.

“After all, we left off a little disagreeably last time. So, here I am.” Tony sighed again, expectantly. Then, he smiled, but the mirth didn’t reach his eyes— only a polite, social smile.

Meekly, Peter replied, “ _Should_ you be here, though, sir?”

The look that met him was knowing yet stubborn. Tony nodded, a bit spastically. “Well, Pete,” Tony said, dragging a thumb across his forehead. “Dr. Pym is overseeing the _preparations_ for burial. Rhodey’s getting the cottage ready to receive guests. Pepper is handling… well, everything else, with Friday’s help. _Hell_ , even the stone’s been engraved already. I could have...” Tony chewed on his bitter thoughts a moment. “Everything’s done.”

The impulse Peter had felt for nearly the past week, to tell Tony he would go to school as his mentor wanted, rose. He bit it back. Instead, he searched his mind for the right words of condolences. 

He remembered Ben’s death— his shrouded body lying on the floor; Ned next to Peter, on the broad windowsill that led to their apartment’s fire escape, while Mrs. Leeds sat _shiva_ and May went to buy a plot in the graveyard; the collection of cash in a bread basket that came from friends and neighbors to help pay for Ben’s grave marker; the lid of the cedar box, set with finality. He remembered how May began to sit in places Ben had sat and sleep on the side of the bed where he’d always lain— so those spaces wouldn’t be empty. 

That’s right… She used to sit at a different chair at the table... He couldn’t think which it had been.

Also, he remembered walking to the synagogue on Eldridge St. for the next year and speaking the _Kaddish_ for Ben, as a son should. He recalled that strange coating in his throat when the adults began to insist that death was always natural. That grieving ends. Yet, how was it natural to be _murdered_ ? Why would he ever forget the _loss_ of his uncle, like the loss of the sun’s warmth in winter? 

Then, he would feel again the churning in his abdomen, persistent— his guilt. Ben should not have been working in that factory. He should have been in Philadelphia, living a life _uninterrupted_ ; but instead, he had moved to that squalid apartment with only a portion of his life’s possessions and worked in that infernal factory, all because of Peter.

No, Peter didn’t know what to say to comfort Tony. Nothing anyone had said to him ever helped. Only when May allowed him to climb into her lap, to stay wrapped in her arms until his legs were numb beneath him, did his heart begin its metamorphosis. In that embrace, day after day, he healed, _selfish_ though it was. One day, he had finished grieving, without truly understanding when or how.

“I’m sorry, kid.” Tony croaked.

Peter startled from his thoughts.

“This was a mistake.” Tony’s thumb raked his forehead again, more agitatedly this time. “I ought to go. I’m not going to be good company.”

“No,” Peter pleaded. “I’ll get dressed. But, let’s not travel all the way to the University Library. I, I’ll be right out! Please make yourself comfortable!”

Peter scurried to his bedroom, leaving Tony in the vestibule. Tony swayed slightly and patted his sides. Making his way to the dining room, he mused over whether he’d heard Peter’s stomach growl.

  
  
  


_January, 1872_

Jarvis disliked traveling by train. The sight of the countryside, rolling by as if on a reel, could be whimsical in the spring or summer, or even the autumn. However, not this dismal, snowy landscape. No one was content in the cramped passenger cars. Men smelling of stale cigar smoke were always seated close to him— or else, mothers who disparaged their children ceaselessly, as though they held no shred of affection for them. 

His hat was awkwardly balanced on his knees and he held a book atop of that. Reading was a pitiful description of the activity. Between sensory distractions, and worryingly repeating his conversation with Tony, in his head, Jarvis had read the same two sentences four times. Had what he’d said been what the young sir needed to hear? 

Ana was always so good with him. She could effortlessly find the reason for his mood, coax him from his palisade, reassure him of her love, and hold him to high, but reasonable, expectations. Jarvis tried to emulate her; but, Ana was so _sure_ and so impertinent with her kindness. He didn’t share her daring— particularly with children. 

He remembered once, when Tony had just turned four years old, he’d gone missing one morning, and it was Ana who had earned his trust. 

  
  
  


_June, 1861_

Tony had been missing since the early morning. Jarvis did his share of searching, inwardly berating the nanny, Mrs. Underwood (two nannies prior to Ms. Crawford.) He suspected that she had no actual knowledge of children; however, he knew Howard possessed a particular knowledge of her. At morning tea, however, he returned to his cottage, as he always did, allowing the nursery staff to continue the search without him for a while. After all, it was their responsibility, and the child was likely playing a game with them.

Ana, he found in the garden, constructing a lattice for the ivy. She laid down her hammer and readjusted the scarf around her hair. Without a greeting, she said, “What’s the little mister so afraid of this morning?”

Jarvis halted. “I’m sorry?” After a beat, he realized she was referring to Tony. But, how did she know— had the morning’s hubbub spread this far? “I hadn’t heard he was afraid of anything. Only that he’s missing.”

“Missing?” Ana repeated. “Well, I wouldn’t go _so_ far. He’s been running about here for the last hour.”

Jarvis seldomly lost control of his face; however, he felt his facade morph comically. “Here?” He exclaimed but she only nodded. “And you haven’t alerted anyone?”

Ana snorted. “Didn’t realize it was such a state of emergency. I’ve kept him in my sight; he’s just there.” She twiddled her fingers toward a thicket of rose-of-Sharon trees and Jarvis saw the young child duck behind it.

Honestly, his wife was extraordinary if any person ever had been. “Have you allowed him to just sit in the bushes?” He began to stride toward the rose-of-Sharons. She was skirting the boundary of his patience. It was understandable that she wanted nothing to do with the Starks or the estate, but it was incomprehensible to let a such a small child hide from everyone in the foliage.

“Yes, until he wants to emerge, and you will, too.” Ana declared, stopping him on his path. Her tone changed, laced with concern. “He was very _distressed_ when I first noticed him, poor thing. Wanted to be left alone. He’s been just sitting there, happily watching me hammer for the longest time; until you walked up that is.” 

They readied a table in the garden for tea. Ana placed a server of eclairs, scones, and lemon drizzle slices onto the table. The breeze was a bit too strong for tea outdoors, but neither wanted to leave Tony unattended. Jarvis whispered over the snapping tablecloth: “Perhaps he might be coaxed out with a sweet.”

Ana glared at him, however. “Edwin, I do not manipulate children— certainly not with sweets. He told me he wants to be left alone, and, in no uncertain terms. So, we’re leaving him _reasonably_ alone.”

“My dear, he’s _four_ years old,” Jarvis insisted.

“So he’s incapable of rational thought? He’s scared of something, I told you. I know a frightened child when I see one.” With hands hooked on her hips, Ana gazed piteously toward the place where Tony hid. “How long has he been missing?”

“Since he woke, as I understand.”

Suddenly Ana was eager to feed him. “The little mister hasn’t had breakfast? It’s 10:30 already!”

Jarvis snarked something under his breath along the lines of “now it’s permissible to lure him with food, is it?” He watched her walk with bent knees, like an ape, up to the patch of rose of Sharons. She remained twice arms’ length from Tony and spoke to him.

“Are you hungry?”

A few stones flew from the between the branches. They landed, clumsily, so far from her that it was evident he hadn’t aimed to hit her. Jarvis deflated, but Ana’s tone sharpened. “Now _that_ I will not abide. I listen to words, not stones.”

“My love!” he whispered, surprised. After all, she was not his nanny and had no right to correct him so casually, with not so much as an honorific. Jarvis’s reproach, of course, went unheeded.

“Go away!” A tiny voice shouted. The rough edge belied he’d been crying this morning. 

As bid, Ana retreated. When she sat and began pouring tea, Jarvis was at his very limit. “Sit down, Edwin.” She chided. “He’ll come when he no longer suspects we are a threat.”

“Why do you suppose he’s frightened?” He asked, but she only shrugged and stirred milk into her tea. The wind sprayed it from the cup, which she ignored as well. He was irritated by her seeming indifference.

However, he calmed slightly when she placed an eclair on a saucer and called to the rose-of-Sharon trees. “This eclair is for you, Little Mister! I’ll set it here, shall I, for when you want it.” Then, she glanced at her husband, challengingly. “Not a word.”

Jarvis’s lips curled but he hid them with his tea cup.

The little voice, brightened slightly, said: “I want ice cream.”

“I don’t have ice cream. I have eclairs,” Ana said. “And scones and lemon drizzle slices, if you’d rather.”

“Go get ice cream.” Tony offered.

Ana smiled around her bite of scone. She remarked to Jarvis: “Very logical, isn’t he?”

Relief was slowly blooming in Jarvis. He stirred his tea with a stick of cinnamon and settled into routine. Eventually, Tony crept closer and closer. Ana instructed Jarvis silently not to react. He was tempted, as she must have known, to shepherd the child back to the mansion, where he belonged. 

When Tony reached the table, Ana handed the eclair to him. He ate it in three bites, impetuously. Ana watched and then poured him some milk. Little hands took it but Tony drank steadily, like an older child. The dichotomy of skill and development would have been humorous under different circumstances.

Finally, Ana asked if he wanted to sit. Tony refused and began to walk back to the trees. Jarvis nearly leapt up, to prevent him, but Ana rose first, following the four-year-old at an unhurried pace. The boy looked at her cautiously, but allowed her to accompany him. Both disappeared, within minutes, behind the rose-of-Sharon trees.

 _Now what?_ Jarvis thought. Never had he felt more powerless, and in his own garden… He decided the best he could do was wait until Ana’s plan (if she indeed had one) was brought to fruition. Certainly, there was little point in returning to the mansion only to report that the son of the estate was rooting about in his garden.

Piercing wails began from the patch of trees and Jarvis did leap from his chair this time. He peered into the trees and found his wife, with Tony curled around her neck like a sash, Ana silently stroking his back. Tony was crying in a way that Jarvis had only ever heard described as “a fit.” He was out of control. It frightened Jarvis; he quickly said, “Now that’s enough, Young Sir.”

Ana pinned him with another glare. “Edwin, dear, perhaps you might lend your services by clearing away the tea.”

So, he’d obliged, sulking in a manner very unbecoming of his age, and listened to the sharp gasps and muffled screams. Occasionally, Tony would quiet, but another wave would overtake him; it was almost an hour before it subsided completely. Not long after, he heard Ana’s voice pitch. He approached, this time very respectfully. His wife was saying: “Mrs. Underwood will do no such thing! And I will tell her so.”

Jarvis peeked in; Tony sat cradled between Ana’s crossed legs. His little thumb was lodged between his molars; he absently ground his teeth on it. Mauve streaks traveled away from both eyes. Every now and then, he breathed and his entire body shuddered, like aftershocks of trauma. Yet, he seemed at last somewhat peaceful.

“Do you believe that I will tell her so?” Ana asked and received a slow nod. “Do you trust that Mrs. Underwood will not punish you if I tell her not to?”

Jarvis recoiled. _What is this about?_ He saw Tony shrug.

“My love, might I speak with you momentarily?”

Tony shied away from Jarvis. Ana reassuringly said that Jarvis would not tell Mrs. Underwood where he was. Still, Tony stayed in the trees while Ana crawled out. 

She was spitting fire, flaring her nostrils, and pursing her mouth in a curt line. He didn’t need to ask for an explanation before she raged: “The poor child is beside himself because that ignoramus of a nurse has no more idea how to care for a child than a wild badger might. They could have just hired a thug off the street for the nursery!”

“What’s happened?”

Ana lowered her voice and confided that the young sir had wet the bed that previous night. Apparently, Mrs. Underwood became very cross about such things and Maria had approved the nanny to discipline him for soiling any clothes or bedding. Tony had run away because he was “bad” even though he “kept trying and trying not to be.”

“It just infuriates me!” Ana whispered. “He says he’s even tried to stay up to all hours so he will be aware enough make it to the chamber pot. Poor dear. It’s perfectly natural for a child his age not to be night trained. Hasn’t he only just had his birthday? And is it any wonder he’s having trouble with it — he’s so stressed!” She huffed. 

Jarvis was silent; it had been quite some time since he’d seen her so incensed. He remembered the days in Cornwall when she’d been a school teacher. Then, too, she had advocated ferociously for each student.

“I’ll just have to _explain_ this to Mrs. Underwood.” Ana declared.

“Allow me, Beloved.” Jarvis offered. “I’ve not been particularly helpful during all this.” To this, Ana scoffed and grinned at him.

Mrs. Underwood ended up quitting on the spot. Jarvis suspected she had been meaning to, regardless; her illicit relationship with Howard had cooled, after all. One of the nursery maids was put in charge until a replacement could be hired. 

When Jarvis returned to his cottage to report this to Ana and Tony, he found them hunched over the unfinished lattice. Ana hammered a nail until it was secure but needed a couple more good whacks. Then, she handed the hammer to Tony, who proceeded to bang the thin boards, both fists gripping the hammer, his cherubic face screwed up in rapt concentration. 

Jarvis felt his heart lunge forward, almost out from his chest. He exclaimed, “Ana!”

She flashed a look at him and defended herself: “The little mister is doing a fine job helping me—“

At that moment, Tony swung the hammer with extra gusto and it ricchoted from the nail head, smashing the very edge of Ana’s fingertip. She sucked in both her lips and twisted away— then back, nodding. “Very fine!” She piped, but added, meekly: “That was my fault.”

  
  


_January, 1872_

Jarvis chuckled to himself, remembering. Tony had dropped the hammer and toddled up to Ana. He took her hand and kissed it matter-of-factly. He said his mother told him that such kisses should be enough to “make it better.” Oh, that they had opened up their lives then and not waited! If only he had been more cognizant of Tony’s life. If he’d not tried to rigidly return again and again to his own notions of their roles.

Even Ana was resistant, he reminded himself. After Tony was returned to the mansion, with no impending threat of punishment (for Jarvis himself had cleaned the bedclothes and ensured the confidentiality of the nurse maids), he told his wife how he admired her way with Tony. She wilted noticeably. “Thank you, dear heart, but, I am better suited to my current life as a garden hermit.”

How untrue that had proven. _Oh well._ Jarvis thought. _I couldn’t have convinced her any more than I was able to myself. Perhaps it is not too late, though, to support the young sir in the ways he needs._

Just then, Jarvis saw Tony standing before him, in the train aisle. The young man’s face was turbulent. Immediately, Jarvis removed his reading spectacles. “Tony? What’s the matter?”

Tony shook his head. He moved his mouth mutely as he gathered himself. “Are, are you sure you don’t want to, to keep them yourself?”

No translation was needed; Jarvis knew he referred to Ana’s drawings. Although, he noted that the sketches were not in the boy’s empty hands. He smiled at Tony. “They are not mine to keep.”

Huffing, Tony rolled his eyes. Pain had taken residence in him; it announced itself in his every move, every sound. He seemed lost and his words abandoned him. He choked out, “It’s not like she’d know.” He dropped his gaze, struggling to clear his throat.

“Oh, would you chance it?” Jarvis joked. “I don’t believe I am so brave.”

“Why don’t you,” Tony broke suddenly, “just come ride in my compartment? This car is awful.” A few passengers reacted to his statement indignantly, Tony was unaffected. “It’s only me in there, and I can purchase another ticket for you when the conductor comes around, if you’re worried about that.”

Jarvis smiled and stood. “I am not worried, Young Sir.”

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

Two slices of seared tomato and a stuffed veal cutlet from the ice box were waiting for Peter when he’d finished getting dressed. The aroma of the tomatoes, seasoned with thyme, pepper, and garlic, drew him to the dining room table. He grinned. “Thank you, Mr. Stark! You didn’t need to—“

Peter walked to the parlor and teetered to a stop. Chin slumped onto his wrist, propped on a settee, Tony was sleeping. He was completely sunken and Peter was, for a moment, transfixed by the sight. Tony’s charisma had been shed. The age in his features was revealed as his usual presence sifted away. Even so, he seemed more dignified.

Peter hesitated. Then he crossed on tiptoe to the radiator and turned the knob, hoping the parlor would heat faster. Relieved that Tony was resting, he returned to the dining room table, to eat the meal prepared for him.

  
  
  


_November, 1877_

Tony’s brain told him someone was counting. _Fifteen_ … _Sixteen_ … But, his body was afloat, unresponsive, as though he’d been molten down and poured into a mold. _Twenty…_ Within the blinding light, he saw the blond, his opponent, laid out on the mat, just beyond his foot. Double knockout? _Twenty-Three..._ Well, he’d better get up.

An impulse sintered him; he felt his knees harden then bend, his elbows dig into the mat. His chin strained against his entire body weight. _Twenty-Eight_ … Half-raised, he groaned before a heavy cloth hit the crown of his head.

  
  
  


In the shower room of the sports club, Tony sat on one of the benches against the bare concrete wall. He was dimly aware of the water flooding his shoes; the squelching sounds when he wriggled his toes sounded as though they were coming from the other side of a heavy board. Stumbling into the shower room, he hadn’t bothered to remove them or his socks or shorts before standing beneath the stream of water. 

His body was compartmentalized as if into so many magician’s cabinets— every piece dissembled. From experience, he knew the rejoining would be increasingly unpleasant. He would need to retrieve his laudanum bottle soon to stave off and numb the reconstruction.

Droplets rolled off his chin, his lip, and the fringe of his dark locks. Deciding he should watch these drops fall instead of move, Tony decreased, little by little, until he was unconscious of all past the end of his nose. He didn’t remember why or what summoned him back to awareness, but he was suddenly aware of Jarvis sitting beside him.

“Did Rhodey write you?” Tony croaked.

“He did.” Came the quiet voice and it stirred something like a breathless cry inside Tony’s chest. A towel, warmed by the stuffy air, draped over his shoulders.

Tony sunk onto a propped elbow. The bone, in contrast to the comfort of the towel, dug into his thigh. He might have straightened back, but he needed the relief of shifting his weight off his left side. He had a feeling that his ribs were bruised there. “Then he’s thrown in the towel for me twice, huh?”

Jarvis was very quiet. Tony felt him shift; he stood, moving to his ankles before Tony on the slickened shower floor. They were eye-level, and the simple gesture was enough to make Tony feel years younger. The waterlogged shoes on his feet conjured memories of tramping back to the cottage from the stream, drenched, and Jarvis would kneel and help remove his boots. Ironically, this meek position that Jarvis offered always ever humbled Tony.

Jarvis’s jaw was grinding as he scrutinized the bruises and lesions across Tony’s upper body. Still, he didn’t speak. Unnerved, Tony looked away; he glimpsed the moonshine jug setting on the far end of the bench. His husky breathing became a cough; he cleared his throat.

“You truly did not need to come all this way.”

“I was not so very far, Young Sir.” Jarvis said, reservedly touching Tony’s face with his knuckles, particularly the swelling knot over his right eye. He drew in a single sharp breath and his brow fell like the end curtain of a play.

Warring within himself, Tony willed Jarvis to leave; of course, though, as contrary as ever, Jarvis did not. Tony began to drum his leg. “You don’t need to call me ‘Sir,’ J. You don’t work for us Starks anymore.”

Jarvis’s hand took his chin and tilted it. Tony didn’t realize, but Jarvis was inspecting a rivulet of drying red that ran from his right ear. Tony caught the sight of the man’s constricting throat and he huffed. “It’s not such a great tragedy, Jarvis. I still could have gotten up and taken the match.” He chuckled and Jarvis’s frown deepened. “It’s just that Rhodey took it upon himself to throw in the towel— as if it were his stakes—“

“Master Rhodes has taken a stake in your _well-being_ , and of his own prerogative. Gratefulness may be a more appropriate response for such friendship, Young Sir,” Jarvis interrupted. 

Tony was taken aback by the rebuke. Rolling his eyes, he sighed, and spied the moonshine jug again. “I suppose you’re here to dissuade me from my current path to destruction?” To his consternation, the sarcastic lilt to his voice nearly became hostile.

“Are you on a path to destruction, Young One?”

Tony balked. Now Jarvis’s stare was meeting his, unwaveringly, seeming to expect an answer— or, perhaps allowing for one. He was held by those calm-sea eyes longer than he could stand. Finally, Jarvis released him. 

“I should like to offer you a proper meal,” Jarvis said, “and dressings for your injuries. First, however, I must insist you sip some water.”

On instinct, Tony recoiled; he scowled. It had been so long since he’d seen Jarvis. He missed him. Much had happened— so much sorrow and even so much joy— that he longed to share with him. And wasn’t it moments ago that his heart lunged toward Jarvis, repeating that child’s plea: _please love me, please love me, please love me_ …! Yet, here was his arrogance, prickling at the offer of care, as though he were still a helpless child. Causing him to lash out, to isolate.

“I’m not in need of your pity, thank you, J.”

Sternness girded the voice that met him. “On the contrary, Young Sir, my feelings inclined toward quite a different direction.” Tony heard the rare warble of anger in Jarvis’s tone. “I cannot recall ever feeling quite so furious with you.”

The air stilled and Tony became little more than an echo chamber. What he feared, what he felt- all memories- everything- rebounded inside him, without form or temperature. He searched Jarvis's face and saw that it was still as calm as he'd ever known, beyond a slight cinch of his forehead and the tone of his voice.

"Even so," Jarvis said, "I still would prefer to see you drink a glass of water and have a good dinner before we speak further."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am humbled by the support and incredible commitment of the readers and fellow creators on this site! Thank you, thank you for 1500 hits! I appreciate you!


	10. Bad in the Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peace never seems to last for Tony. He struggles against the pull of violence and self-hatred — if for no other reason than to spare the ones who love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: domestic abuse, homophobia, suicidal ideation (implied)

_January, 1903_

Night waded timidly into morning; Tony felt it lap around him as he resurfaced from dreamless sleep. There was the softest rustle there, at his elbow. He stirred, finally understanding that his arms were crossed, on the edge of the bed, his head nestled between them, and he was still seated in the chair, in the cottage, and Jarvis’s hand was resting on his elbow. Lifting his head, he took the hand held it. He rubbed his face on his shoulder until lucid enough to wonder when he’d fallen asleep— how could he have fallen asleep?

But he felt so peaceful.

Jarvis, too, was undisturbed. In the faint lamplight, his face was at once older and ageless, with many dancing lines, yet in such composure as to redefine the idea of what is youthful. Tony saw many familiar expressions in his face, impossibly, in one glance. And, as Tony looked at him— clinging sweat, cooled, and all quaking, stilled— Tony slipped his fingers down to the inside of Jarvis’s wrist. He pressed them and he felt for a pulse.

He repositioned his fingers and felt again. Then again. Then again, turning Jarvis’s wrist so he could be sure he was touching the path where that murmur of life should be.

Tony held Jarvis’s wrist for the length of two long breaths.

Quietly, he turned the wrist back to its resting position and held all the hand’s fingers in his own. Tony allowed his heart to beat, its weighty thudding an anchor lest he drift away from the room. He allowed himself to swallow, preparing his throat to speak. He allowed his head to bow under the silence, the silence he had been expecting for how many days now?

When he was ready, he rose, laid Jarvis’s hand, then the other, over his still chest, as if the man were napping, propped up in bed. After a lingering press of his hand on Jarvis’s two, Tony gathered the sheet, which was folded down, across Jarvis’s middle, and paused.

His mind saw no images, but he heard the winter wind under a bridge, heard Peter’s voice, without a syllable, yet he was overwhelmed with its meaning. _My Papa_ … _Just a kiss on the cheek from you_ … _All he wanted_. He left the sheet where it was. After a wordless farewell, he leaned down to place a kiss on Jarvis’s cheek. Then, he lifted the sheet and covered Jarvis with it.

He crossed to the door, opened it, and hoarsely called, “Rhodes.” Again, after a beat, more insistently: “ _Rhodey_.” Knowing Rhodey would come, Tony looked back to the bed, though he didn’t walk toward it. 

A memory struck him— when he was a child, staying the night here, Mrs. Ana reading to him from _Don Quixote_ , Jarvis entered the bedroom with a white shirt draped over his head, mewling and claiming he was a ghost. Ana and Tony laughed and Jarvis half-heartedly swiped at Tony with uncoordinated limbs as though he were going to spirit him away, and Ana pretended to cower and allowed Tony to “save” her.

Such a rare event— Jarvis acting silly— such an unexpected memory—

By the time Rhodes stood at his shoulder, Tony was helplessly chuckling, muffling himself with a cupped hand, tears falling from his eyes.

  
  
  


_January, 1872_

“I don’t recognize these structures,” Tony muttered. With a hand splayed across the trembling sheaf of Ana’s portfolio, to anchor it to his lap, he perused the architectural designs. Trying to study the drawings in the convulsing train car was nearly overwhelming, but Tony was so entranced by the intricate aesthetics, so classical in concept, yet structurally daring, that he set his teeth and concentrated.

Jarvis sat next to him. The sun had grown brilliant through the hours they’d ridden the train. It was much warmer than that bitter morning had been, and, having had lunch, Jarvis was completely content. Stamford had passed, and Hartford, and, soon, Worcester would as well; but, Tony asked anxiously at each stop whether Jarvis was planning to see him to the academy, so Jarvis remained. He told himself that he could afford to stay with the young sir until Tony seemed settled.

He’d shed his coat and was using it as a surface for playing a game of Patience. “Hm?” He asked, though he understood. Laying down his cards, he gazed at the drawing under Tony’s fingers. His answer was lazy in forming, but Tony wasn’t necessarily expecting one. Finally, Jarvis said, “No, nor would anyone. These are her own designs.”

Tony looked up; his surprise was mild. Ana was already an architect and engineer to him in all but occupation. What impressed him most was the volume of work that he held. “All of them?” He flipped clumsily through the portfolio. This was the first book of many. All of them were thick with shuffled, ash blond and cobalt paper, worn velvety soft by being long-cherished.

“I believe so,” Jarvis said.

“I would like to see one. Probably none in the States, huh? They look a bit… grand for the English countryside, though.”

“I’m afraid that none were ever constructed.” Jarvis swallowed against a swell nostalgia. His head was cocked just so, a meek gesture for the Ruler of Time. A supplication for Her to be kind. Then, he began to speak again. “My Ana dreamt of studying architecture in Vienna. Her mother was inexorably opposed. You see, Ana was expected to care for the household, though she was younger than many of her brothers. When she was nineteen, she absconded to the _Akademie_ , but, being a woman, was denied.”

Prickled at the unjust irony of the tale— thrust into one role and frozen out of another, because of her sex, nevermind her brilliance — Jarvis glared at the train floor.

Tony watched him until Jarvis returned the gaze. “Tell me more about her.” Innocence buoyed in the boy’s eyes such as Jarvis had not seen since he’d held the shivering youth and Tony had peered up, timidly, at him to ask if he were angry.

So, he inhaled and proceeded to test Nostalgia, quietly begging not to cry in front of Tony. In no depiction of fatherhood had he ever seen the patriarch comforted by the child. As for his own experience, he and his siblings had known their father sometimes drank late at night and wept so that all heard, but they’d been strictly expected to pretend ignorance. So, Jarvis measured his tone, setting up the storm walls. He allowed Tony to lead, only answering his prompts for details. When did he meet her? How old were they? The like—

Eventually, however, warmth welled around his eyes as he described Ana as a young woman. When they’d met, he was at the end of his tour in the army and was leisurely— _avoidantly—_ making his way back to England when she commanded his attention in a hotel tailor shop. He left the shop with an expensive new silk necktie and every intention of lengthening his stay in Budapest. Ana was brash, exuberant, and nearly argumentative with every person around her. Not that _he_ dared argue with her, of course. Everyone seemed to love her for it.

Jarvis relaxed and leaned into the memories. At the tailor shop, Ana used to tell him stories— well, she told _all_ the customers stories— grand, dramatic yarns, in which ordinary life was rewrought as fantastic. Somehow common businessmen with lingering toast crumbs on their waistcoats were challenged to play the role of viscounts and Sultans. Invariably, the tales crept into opportunities for the male customers to attest their own propriety, which led to a flirtatious argument, which led to a grand show of opulence, which led to a sale and commission on Ana’s part. 

(Jarvis privately chuckled, grazed by reminiscent arousal, though fleeting and comfortable.) 

Gentlemen swarmed the little tailor shop, listening to her anecdotes, but he always felt as though she was orating solely to him.

(Soon he awakened to the foolishness of this idea. Either he actually approached her or admitted she was merely a fancy. Neither way his to _claim_. Yet, he decided he would rather be rejected outright than buy any more ostentatious neckties or handkerchiefs. Soon he wouldn’t even have the means to travel home.) One night, he’d invited her dancing (and it turned out she was even more possessing in a more intimate arrangement. He didn’t go into detail about any of this with Tony, of course.)

Breaking from the now very censored tale he was weaving, Jarvis recalled other details. Ana loved to challenge him to competitions— very unlike any young women who had previously made his acquaintance. This caught Tony’s attention. “What kind of competitions?”

Grinning, Jarvis closed his eyes, summoning the hotel shop, the counter, and Ana, more vividly. “Little wagers like spinning a silver piece the longest; or, removing a bottle cork without the proper instrument; or, it might be a game of concentration.”

“We used to play those on our nature hikes,” Tony said, happy to contribute.

Jarvis grinned. “Yes. Of course, the little cheat never did challenge anyone to a game she hadn’t all but mastered.”

“That’s not cheating.” Tony’s protesting tone surprised Jarvis. “That’s just smart betting.” 

Jarvis conceded with a nod. 

“Besides, I won a few times.” Tony said.

Eyes twinkling, Jarvis replied, “If anyone could get the best of her, it would be you,Young One. She had a particular softness for you, besides.” 

Tony returned his gaze thoughtfully. They were quiet and again aware of the knocking of the locomotive's joints as it lumbered along the tracks. It seemed they had lapsed into a different place for several minutes and now were posited back on the New York-Boston line.

Tony studied the architectural designs again. The soft pencil graphite was smudged here and here— He thought for the tenth time that afternoon that he should build a daguerreotype and commit each design to microfilm before they ghosted away for good. Once they were preserved on film, Jarvis could have the portfolios back; no matter what he said, they belonged with him.

As Tony closed the leather cover, the letter from Ana, still sealed, poked out from the pages. He pinched the sharp corner of the envelope. “J,” he said and stowed the portfolio with the others, safely with his luggage. “My head hurts from this damned rickety train.”

“Leave off your condemnations, Young Sir,” Jarvis idly chided, “and have a lie down, if you’d like.”

Tony clambered up the narrow ladder to the sleeping bunk. He didn’t bother with the threadbare sheets but he clasped his coat around him, pillow beneath his head. The feeling of being wrapped seemed familiar. He smelled the breath of fire from a guilty memory. The urge to apologize to Jarvis dug into his side viciously. He buried his face into the flat pillow until it hurt.

Slowly, it eased, relieved by the illusion of hiding. In the shadow of his mind, he toyed with a question he had been too afraid to ask with Jarvis so near. “J?”

“Yes, Young Sir?”

 _Last chance to chicken out_ … Instead of swallowing the inquiry, Tony hurled it from himself. “What were you going to name your child, you know, when it was born…?”

He was so thankful he couldn’t see Jarvis’s face!

The compartment was silent. Even the banging of the train car muted in anticipation. Then Jarvis’s steady voice said: “It was rather early, really, to think of such things. We never discussed it.” He paused and Tony wilted a little. “But,” Jarvis resumed, slowly, “I quite liked ‘Adora.’” Another pause. “Or ‘Philomena’ for a girl.”

 _Adora. Philomena. Philomena Jarvis_ . Tony revolved the names in his head, considering them like a blacksmith might rough ore. _Adora Jarvis. Ana Jarvis. Philomena._ His heartbeat hammered in his chest and he pushed sound from his throat again, if only to hear something other than that agonized pounding. “What about a boy?”

Jarvis hummed. “I was rather occupied, to be frank, by the possibility of a daughter, as it’s not an experience I’ve known.” Tony noted the words wryly. “However, I’ve always liked the name of my beloved’s oldest brother, Miklos. And, I had a younger brother, Michael, whom I called ‘Mickey.’ Would have suited, I suppose.”

“Mickey Jarvis,” Tony said, aloud this time. Casually, he added, “It’s a nice name.”

As though Tony spoke an incantation, the name cast a shuddering change to the space around them. Words began to overflow from him without bidding. “You can talk about your child, J. I, I just mean that, you shouldn’t feel,”— picking hairs from his arms would be less painful— “like you _can’t_ talk about… it… because of, uh, me, or, or, anything, you know, like that, I mean.” The inflammation in his gut lingered in the quiet that followed.

Finally, Jarvis cleared his throat, “Thank you, Young Sir. To be honest, however, neither my Ana nor I had expected the pregnancy to be successful.”

As painful as his bumbling words had been for Tony to say, Jarvis’s revelation struck him like a bolt. He sprung onto his elbow, looking over the bunk. From his perch, Jarvis’s hands were just visible, in his lap. His cards were scattered beneath; he had not been playing. Tony worried for him; Jarvis suddenly sounded weary, ill.

The image of the bassinet, green laces ruffling, limned in his mind. Tony couldn’t bring himself to ask more, but he was desperately curious. What did Jarvis mean that they had not expected it to be successful? He remembered how closely Ana’s letter about her pregnancy and the telegram to the Academy relaying her tragic death had been to one another. It had seemed surreal, almost comical. No sooner had he been cursing the news that her love would be displaced from him, motherhood bestowed on a rightful son, than was it terminated— but she along with it!

“Ana,” Jarvis said, more as an exhale than a word. He faltered for several minutes. Finally deciding on an appropriate phrase, he tried again, with a renewed tone: “God did not deign to provide her with a body that could sustain...” He couldn’t finish, but Tony, having attended all the mandated science courses with his fellows, was able to surmise what Jarvis meant.

“I didn’t think you ascribed to the notion of God, J,” Tony said, after a breath, attempting levity.

“Well, I certainly couldn’t agree to as much now,” Jarvis answered. It was blunt and humorless. Guttural, his voice reminded Tony, horribly, of Howard’s.

The impulse to apologize seized Tony again. Instead, he choked out: “Do you need anything, J?”

Jarvis, surprised, emitted a soft, inquiring sound. Then, he spoke and his smile was audible in the tone. “No, I’m quite fine, Young Sir. But, thank you.” A charged cessation. Hesitating, not wishing to prod, Jarvis listened to a few tearless sobs. _What a tender young heart_ . “Do _you_ need anything, Little One?”

A little inhale, then, quieter, Tony whispered: “I wish you were my father, J.”

As his heart roared in his ears, Tony wondered if he’d really spoken aloud. The secret shared was so softly imparted to the air… This was not what he’d meant to tell Jarvis. He should have said that he was ashamed of himself, deeply ashamed, for intruding on Jarvis’s sorrow, for stealing his grief, for causing him hardship, and, then, for acting petulantly, for pretending he’d done nothing wrong and ignoring Jarvis, even though he’d only wanted to soothe and forgive Tony— He should stop forgiving him! —He should not waste his kindness on Tony when Tony only punished him for it. He couldn’t even follow the simple command to not drink, after nearly dying from the drink— nearly dying in Jarvis’s arms, just two months after he buried his beloved, and before he could bring himself to be rid of the reminders of the happy life out of which they’d been _cheated_.

Sheer pain screwed through his cheeks as Tony fought to quell the sounds of his crying. _I’m such a burden!_ He admonished himself. _Mrs. Ana trusted me to love her; I told her I did my job._ Suddenly he was unsure that the job had ended. Surely part of loving Ana was loving Jarvis. How would she react if she knew Tony had wrong him? _What am I doing?_

Biting hard on his tongue, Tony finally became aware of a hand reaching up, over the edge of the bunk. The hand laid firmly on the toe of his shoe. It squeezed; he could feel the warmth through the thin, chilled leather. This gentle, unassuming gesture of reassurance was enough to quiet him for a moment. He resolved himself to try again to finish the job he promised Mrs. Ana to do.

Unaware of his thoughts, Jarvis murmured his own oath: “I’m here, Tony. You have me.”

Tony stifled a whimper, biting down into the flesh of his hand.

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

Peter held his dark Brunswick green slacks up to his waist. These were his best pair, reserved for social obligations. It had been over a year since he’d last worn them and they reached only to the very peak of his ankle bone. _Oy vey_ … Has he really grown that much? 

“This will need adjusted.” He murmured, but wondered if May could really lengthen the legs that much. Long socks might help. Sighing, he thought, _It’s the schoolyard all over again_.

Peter’s growth spurts made it a challenge to keep him in clothes that fit. His pant legs were often too short. He remembered one chilly day he had made the mistake of telling Ned that his ankles were cold and the other boys overheard. They’d spent the remainder of recess pelting his exposed socks with snowballs.

Snowballs.

Peter chuckled. Harley liked to throw snowballs at the weathervane atop the Starks’ stable. Mostly, he missed it, which may be why the pastime was tolerated; though, it vexed Happy to no end. Jarvis could usually de-escalate him, though, allowing Harley to have some fun. Harley had been throwing snowballs when Peter visited, the day after Christmas, to discuss his apprenticeship to Tony.

“Parker!” He had called “Parker! Three guesses!” And he galloped breathlessly to Peter. Not actually allowing him three guesses to his exciting news, Harley blurted: “Mr. Stark used to be a prizefighter!”

“Huh?” Peter heard himself say.

“A prizefighter— like a boxer— you know, Bob Fitzsimmons, John Sullivan—!” Harley began to bounce back and forth on his toes, fists squared up. Peter laughed and asked who he was talking about. “Come on, Parker! A boxer— you know what boxing is, don’t you, Pretty?” This was a nickname that Harley persistently used for Peter, who had become resigned to it.

Harley continued to leap around him and jab the air. Peter bemusedly mimicked him and they play-fought until the information really sank in. Peter asked, “Mr. Stark?”

“That’s what I’ve been tellin’ you! He was a heavyweight boxer— Mr. Jarvis _trained_ him! Ain’t that batty? He was tellin’ me the other day all about how Mr. Stark was the best swarmer in New York.”

Peter broke from his memories. _That’s right; Harley really loved Jarvis_. He wondered if Harley was okay. Death never left the same impression on anyone. Sure, everyone is sad, but, just like love, everyone seemed to take grief in their own way. 

May filled the absence with herself, where she could. Ned, when his father died, took over his dad’s hobby of cryptography and secret codes. Mrs. Leeds had spent every moment she could with friends, talking about her lost husband and either laughing or weeping. When Harry Osborne’s grandmother died, he became very quiet, though he never seemed upset.

After Ben’s death, Peter had gone to the riverbed and exhumed clay. He exhausted himself. washing it, sifting, and molding from it the basest forms, never deciding whether these forsaken golem were purposefully ugly or inevitably so. When he was too ragged to continue, he went home and asked May to hold him. They would both curl up in Ben’s armchair, Peter, burying his face under her chin, and May, gazing quietly at Peter’s and her empty chairs.

And Tony? He wanted to go somewhere...

Draping the slacks over his bed, Peter sighed. He went to his closet and looked through the clothes for his best dress shirt. He wasn’t sure when Jarvis’s funeral would be; they certainly couldn’t have the burial until the spring thaw. Still, Tony said preparations were being made, so Peter wanted to be sure May would have time to adjust his slacks.

He pulled out his white dress shirt and juddered. Along the shoulder seams, little silk blossoms had been attached. He stared at them for a long time: flowery, white, beautiful. _Like cherry blossoms_ … “May!” Whining to no one, Peter covered his face in the shirt. “I can’t wear this…”

Then, from the other side of the house, he heard a frustrated shout— “Goddammit!”

  
  
  


Tony’s palms took the brunt of his weight, crowding his eyes into their sockets, as he slumped onto them. His head was slung between his shoulders. He looked like a city devastated by natural disaster. The serene dignity at which Peter had marveled just a few hours ago, had vanished.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter murmured, keeping his distance, “are you okay, sir?”

Sighing, Tony roused himself. His harrowed expression kept Peter quiet; he wondered if Tony had had a nightmare. Surely just the act of waking up shouldn’t be so deeply perturbing. Tony glimpsed him hesitating in the doorway and let his gaze drop again. “You could have woken me up, kid.” He said it like an apology.

“It’s really alright, Mr. Stark.” Peter shrugged. “You wouldn’t sleep unless you were tired; that's what May says.”

Under his breath, Tony rasped out: “It’s not alright.”

Peter heard and asked, innocently, “Why not?”

However, Tony didn’t acknowledge his question. He stood, his clothes visibly creased. Suddenly, Peter wondered if he had worn them all the night before, the day before— how long had Tony been in this restless state? He looked like the storied traveler, who never stopped more than a night in any place; admittedly, it was his face more than his clothing that gave the impression.

“What’s the time?” Tony asked.

Peter dipped his head to the side so he could check the wall clock. Tony found it as well and sighed just as the words made it from Peter’s tongue. “Two minutes past four o’clock.”

“I,” Tony said, “I had better—“ But he halted mid-breath when he saw the meek disappointment shining on Peter’s face. He rubbed his thumb across his forehead. “Look, Pete…”

“Oh!” Squeaked the youth with undisguised hope. “Mr. Stark, my peach bloom glaze—“

“Kid, please.” Tony shook his head, effectively extinguishing that darling flame of hope. “I’m sorry.” Any further explanation stuttered in the back of his throat. He repeated, “I’m sorry.”

Peter stepped toward him. “It’s alright, Mr. Stark.”

“No,” Tony’s voice was wrung from his throat. His arms hit his sides. “I should be able— It’s not as though— and, I had thought…” The kid took another step toward him and, like a magnetic presence, he sensed the urge Peter had to comfort him. Tony instinctively retreated.

“I’m just no good at waiting.” He admitted. “I need to do _something_ , go somewhere— and of course it’s the Second Ice Age out there! Hurts just to walk in the wind.” He did not restrain his ire until he noticed Peter flinch at his tone. Then he sighed.

Peter blurted out, “I understand, Mr. Stark. You want to occupy your mind; it… makes it easier. I was the same way when, oh, well…”

He gulped in a comical way that dumbfounded Tony and reminded him of life just a week earlier. How light those days had felt— how unencumbered. And, how he loved this boy! But, why was he standing here, just so he could burden Peter? It was not the kid’s job to take care of him.

“You know, sir, maybe you and I can go see a boxing match. There’s a gym, just over in Forest Hills.” 

Tony’s eyes snapped once; he nearly didn’t comprehend the offer. The eagerness in Peter's voice was painful to hear. Tony cocked an eyebrow, searching Peter’s face and repeating the words. “Go see a match?” A sensation threaded itself through the sinews of his back—a sort of relief, even as his shoulders tensed in a memory-conducted routine.

“Yeah,” Peter said and shrugged as though to convince him. “You know, John Sullivan and… uh, Fritz Simmons.”

The first bar of a laugh played in Tony’s throat. He scrutinized the youth before him, trying to distract his mind from the pugilistic hunger awakening in him. It had been years since he’d been in a real match. “Where’s this coming from?”

Embarrassed, Peter shrugged again. “Well, I thought you might like to. Harley told me that you used to be a boxer.” He grinned with— was that encouragement? Tony began to realize what was behind these words. “He said you were one of the best.”

Amused now, Tony asked. “And who told Harley?”

Peter blinked. “Oh…” 

Tony’s eyes lost their glint, but he nodded. “Sure, kid. We can go, me and you.” Mustering his best smile, he went quiet.

Too hopeful to give up his newest found purchase, Peter piped, “Forest Hills isn’t too far. We could go now, if you’d like. It might help,” he said and became shy, “keep your mind busy.”

Tony regretted coming here more strongly with each moment Peter looked at him. His thoughts had turned toward Peter as he rode from Long Island. Eventually he admitted to himself that he was directing his horse not to their home but to the little house in Queens. 

He truly felt remorse for not following through on his promise to take the kid to the university; but, the guilt was compounded by the fact he’d been planning to introduce Peter to a possible tutor while there. The hope was he could gently convince Peter to continue his studies, but from home, since he was obviously adverse to the thought of attending school. 

The entire disaster— from their argument to his (well-intentioned) scheme— ate at Tony’s gut. Then, he’d fallen asleep! “Listen,” Tony murmured. “Kid…” _Fallen asleep, leaving Jarvis alone_ … He huffed at himself and Peter asked again if he was alright. It was becoming too much for Tony to take.

“You win. Let’s see who’s on the card, huh?”

  
  


_14 August, 1872_

_My friend,_

_Tony,_

_I apologize for my great delay in responding to your last two letters. The truth is that I was very cross with you. My heart, as it always would, hurts for you over the loss of your dear Mrs. Ana. Please forgive me for my silence. I know that the time has come I should explain myself._

_The reason I so pettily ignored your correspondence, even despite your pain, is that phrase you wrote regarding your suffering: “you could not possibly know how this feels...” But, I do know, Tony. You would not have said that about me if you understood what has happened since we were kids together. Yet, I am the reason that you don’t. It was unfair of me, I know, to bear such a grudge. If I had been more forthcoming with you... You see, my sisters— my parents— are dead; I have been completely alone for nearly three years._

_I suppose I did not tell you for very selfish reasons. After all, your mind is the last place where my life is the same, where it resembles those days that we spent in the summer, flying kites, and in the evenings, my father would act out the plays that Daisy and Holly wrote during their days confined indoors, and my mother would teach me the names of birds and how to extract oils from plants, and Dad would bring home flowers he received from the theater and sprinkle the petals all over our hair and the floor, and mother would take me out in the canoe, and you and I played under my dear virginiana tree... and I told you almost_ _everything_ _about myself, and you’ve always remembered what I told you… and you asked to hear more._

_I’m sorry, Tony._

_So much has changed now. I have found a new happiness and a gracious, accepting home in the Sisters of St. Joseph Children’s Home; but, I suppose I wanted my old life to be preserved in some way. In hiding my family’s deaths from you, I hoped they would remain somehow alive, even if it were not within me. Also, I suspect that I wanted just one person not to regard me as “that poor orphan boy Samuel Potts, who lost everything and everyone he had.”_

_I should not mope. I have not lost everything. I still have you— as long as I don’t hold any more useless grudges. And, indeed, I have gained much in the last three years. The Sisters were patient and generous from the beginning, though at first they did not quite know what to do with me. It seems they and your Mr. Jarvis have much in common, eh? Sister Margaret, who is dear and_ _formidable_ _, had the postmaster permanently forward your letters to the Sisters of St. Joseph Church, where I live. Even austere Sister Melinda is unconventionally maternal. I should not mope._

 _You asked me once, when we were young, if I would prefer to go forward or backward in time, were it possible. I lied to you. I told you then that I was happy where I was, in the present moment. What I had actually desired was to go forward, to a time when I was_ _different_ _, where I had outgrown the silly phases of childhood. I had thought I would become something complete or stable, at least, as an adult. Now I’m not so sure._

 _Here, at the children’s home, I am aging out. Once I am fifteen, I will be assigned a job somewhere I can earn my keep— perhaps on a farm. (Oh, but I would rather study law, as I always talked with Dad about.) Adulthood has been laid bare to me, though, and I cannot find any promise in it. This to say, I find myself now wishing to travel_ _backwards_ _in time, to live my happy childhood again, with every silly thought or feeling I ever had! Then, I would travel backwards again, and again. It would be like an enchantment; I would be free. I would no longer restrain myself or be afraid when the adults would cringe at the things I did or said. I no longer see what they want from me as deserving such attention._

_That reminds me. In your letter from January (sorry again that I ignored you so long) you spoke about trying to please your father, how you're “like a flagellate praying to his god” you said. I wanted to tell you “I’m sorry” for being so obtuse that day at the pond, when I stumbled on you swimming. I understand now why Mrs. Ana sent me away; I wish I had listened the first time. You must have been in much pain; I don’t blame you anymore for yelling at me. I thought I understood how you felt. I was trying to offer a solution, but was naive to think I could._

_I don’t know if my thoughts are easy to follow, but I’ve been contemplating Families (since I find myself in such a strange, cobbled one) and I know that you would never hurt your children the way your father did you. I couldn’t imagine it. I think you are actually very kind, though you don’t seem to want anyone to know. As I’ve read your words over the years, I keep thinking that. And, since you’re not like your father and would not hurt someone like he did you, you ought not hurt yourself either._

_Maybe I’m making up things, but, maybe I’m not. It just seems that sometimes you say things about yourself that are unkind and you say them as though it were someone else making fun of you and you’re just joining in on the joke. If I’m wrong, tell me. I must admit, I have too much time to ruminate here, at the church. I’m often alone with my thoughts as I do chores. I’m able to chew them twice, thrice, or four times before I move on to the next._

_Anyway, I am truly sorry that you’ve lost your precious Mrs. Ana. I know that she was like the sun to you. I hope I can be some comfort as a friend, if you’ll forgive me. Maybe we can find a path together through our loss. Please write to me again._

_I still hope to travel to see you one day._

_My best,_

_Pepper_

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

Peter’s face burned almost enough to trail steam through the crisp air. He stood, mortified, in front of the gym in Forest Hills. It was closed. Tony, seeming suddenly to tower beside him, quietly hummed, looking at the securely locked building. “I had wondered.” He mused. “Not many matches would be scheduled on a Tuesday evening, hm?”

Gaze cast to the ground, Peter coughed out: “Sorry, Mr. Stark. I didn’t realize—“ Frustration choked him. He figured boxing matches happened all the time at the gyms and sports clubs. How stupid...

Tony laid a hand on his cap. “Hey, don’t let it bother you, kid. Next time.”

“I just—“ Peter said, but stopped again. Every explanation tested the veracity of his selflessness; it was difficult to insist that he was not just trying to repair the awkward break between them. Peter had the feeling of trying to carry a punchbowl, brimful, in his embrace without spilling any on his sleeves.

The wind slipped over them like a straight razor. Tony bit back a curse. “Come on, Pete. Let’s get you back home. I had better, as well—”

His voice halted when Peter lashed out, kicking a snow bank. The youth’s face was trembling, charged with emotion. The sight dumbfounded Tony. Never had Peter lost his cool in front of him. 

Swiftly, perhaps trying to deflect any attention to his outburst, Peter began to walk ahead, away from the gym.

Tony pursued him. Regaining his wits a little, he attempted: “Pete. What’s up?”

Peter wouldn’t look at him, but he dejectedly apologized. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. I’m just embarrassed, I guess.”

Brow buckled, Tony said, “It’s alright, kid. We can figure out another time, if you want.” He studied the tightened jaw, the taut ears, and the flaring nostrils. Why was the kid so upset?

A deep sigh escaped him before Peter nodded. “Sure.” Then, as a helpless afterthought, he said, “I just wanted to… I don’t know.”

Tony’s gaze hardened. From the start, he had been unfair to the kid, showing up out of nowhere. For relief, he scanned the area around them. Posters depicting two boxers were tacked along the fence beside them. Tony spared the posters a glance. He didn’t recognize the men featured, of course.

These athletes were “freshly cut” as he put it, just entering their prime. Their cheeks, chins, and temples were as chiseled marble, with no evidence of broken noses or fractured cheekbones. His own, well… The slim muscles of their chests and abdomens flowed smoothly in tight coils around their straight frames. Wryly, Tony thought of the paunch that now curled around his waist. Not that he wasn’t fit, but…

 _These upstart young boxers_ , he said to himself. _Not so different_...

Then, his breath quivered. From the crags of his soul, bubbled up humiliation. Thick, tar-like, it coated him, suffocating him from the inside. Memories— some sights, some sensations— flashed like the white light of a landed jab. He snarled.

“Mr. Stark?”

Peter’s innocent tone startled him.

“You know, Pete,” he said, wanting so much, but failing, to act normal, “I know a place where there’s a match going on anytime of day.”

  
  
  


_24, June 1875_

_Dear Samuel,_

_I know. You’ve asked me to call you “Pepper,” but I can’t bring myself to for this letter. Got to disappoint everyone equally, I suppose._

_Nevermind me, please._

_Did you ever think you would see so many of my scars when we first began our correspondence?_

_This letter will be brief. I apologize for not meeting you on the road as Jarvis told you I would. I hope you didn’t wait long._

_And I yelled at you again, I guess. Bad habit. I just couldn’t let you watch. You understand that, don’t you?_

_Listen, I’m begging you: forget it happened. Do whatever you need to do to forget everything that happened. Hate me, if it means you can forget. Please, just don’t think about it. Don’t wonder. Don’t ruminate. And, it would be better if you didn’t write to me, either._

_I am fine, I assure you. I’ve had worse, you know. And he obviously didn’t kill me. Ghosts don’t write letters. _

_Jarvis stepped in, like always. I’m going back to Boston. Jarvis told me to stay there, find myself an apartment. As you can imagine, I’ll need a new source of income. I’ll likely live with Rhodey’s family. At least for a while. You should meet them; they’re a hoot!_

_Anyway, I said this would be brief. Good luck to you in New York! I’m sure you will make a formidable lawyer. Tell Matt and Franklin that I expect them to work at least half as hard as you and not to be slacking off, letting you do all the work. That would be just like them… Also, let Matt know that I’m happy to oblige him in the ring whenever his ante’s up. I plan to enter the boxing world in earnest now._

  
  


_I still love you, Pep._

_Forgive me for saying so._ ~~_Here I am telling you to ha_~~

 _I’m tired, Pepper. Maybe I should go to sleep. I probably would if I could dispel this damned energy— I feel like there’s a generator lodged in my chest that propels me against my will. I hate this feeling! Even worse, though, I also worry that I can’t live without it anymore, Pep. Like, I need the violence. I need the fight. And the punishment. Like a drunk needs a drink._ _~~Every time I taste a little peace~~ _ _It just makes sense to me. It’s the lesson I’ve learned since boyhood. Must be a Stark thing, though; nobody else seems to agree._

_You won’t agree with me, I know, and I can’t explain it any better. I think I’m just “bad in the blood” as they say. The ol’ family legacy..._

_Either way, maybe I’ll run myself out one day. Take care of yourself, Pepper._

_Goodbye,_

_Tony_

_June, 1875_

With the scrape of the deadlatch still vibrating in his ears, Jarvis turned from the heavy, ornate doors and faced Howard Stark. An illusion of darkness stole over the bedroom, in brazen defiance of the brilliant morning outside the windows. That same shadow shrouded Howard’s face, welling in his deep-set sockets and rage-hollowed cheeks.

Behind Jarvis, Tony pounded on the outer side of the doors. Whatever threats he managed to form were muddled by the obstruction. There also came quieter interruptions— Maria’s voice. It had been Maria who had run for Jarvis, the endangered thrill in her person, palpable. 

The handle rattled as the young man pried at it; but, Jarvis had drawn the bolt. There would be no passage through the doorway, in or out, until Jarvis and Howard’s conversation had ended. He would make sure of that.

Howard’s mustache twitched slightly, but just slightly. He leaned very casually against Tony’s dresser as though he and Jarvis may be convening to discuss the ledger. He wore a devil’s composure and a creeping leer.

In juxtaposition, Jarvis’s features were drawn, strong, and controlled. Years ago he had set the trigger, declared the terms: _If Howard mistreated Tony again_ … And now he had.

Tony’s cries had urged him faster as he’d approached down the hall, led by the boy’s mother. Samuel Potts teetered in the doorway— stricken— evidently torn by his love for his friend and the screams ordering him: “Get out! _Get the hell out_ of here, Pepper! _Now_!”

Jarvis had _just_ been able to press the Potts lad into Maria’s grasp, instructing him to wait on the road for Tony. He wedged himself in the doorway, effectively blocking the enraged young man from pushing himself back inside. All the while, behind him, Howard had Tony backed to the wall, a growled conversation between them— Give me your belt, boy— No— I waited too long. You need to learn— Stop. Father, stop! _Stop!_

Removing Tony from the room was a graceless task. Howard continued to sling the belt he’d taken from his son, even around Jarvis, as he’d tried to seperate them. Tony— who had apparently been in a state of undress— had no shirt, nothing Jarvis could hold to direct him. He had to take the young man by his arms, praying he did not hurt him, and push him from the room.

“J, no!” Tony pleaded, terrified, as Jarvis shut the door and drew the bolt. 

Now, Jarvis took to his mark and squared up, prepared to deliver judgement. The righteousness igniting his veins flared at each remembrance of Tony— arms flung over his head in meager protection as he cowered under the blows— the welts growing on his naked sides — and the wrath hardened Jarvis’s resolve.

Both men listened to Tony’s indistinct protestations from outside the door while silently meeting each other’s gaze; when the din weakened, Howard spoke.

“How many years has it been now, Jarvis?” He asked quietly. Jarvis remained inexpressive. “Seems like a hundred since Brussels. You saved my life, it feels, a _lifetime_ ago.” Howard swung his hands, fingers clasped and globular, between his knees. “I have tried to repay you for it, yet...” He allowed this to dangle, searching for a response from Jarvis, but not receiving one. “Not fairly enough, I suppose.”

Jarvis regarded Howard with an uncharacteristic intensity. His chest expanded in measured inhalations, a stoked fire within. Howard, for all his immense self-possession, was impressed by the vehemence he read in his stare.

“You know, a man lives as a sacrifice, a walking immolation, ever dragged back to the stone.” Howard drew his words, leisurely, as though from a quiver. “Thus he builds his dynasty.” He laughed drily. “And he’s afforded a sole keeper”— Howard’s lips began to curl in sardonic menace— “one meant to guard the proof of his time on this mortal plain. His son.”

“He is the one you’ve treated unfairly.”

Howard roared, “I? Indeed, Jarvis? He has humiliated me!”

The vitriol in Howard’s voice was potent enough to poison a behemoth. It took _no_ effect on Jarvis. “He has become everything you could have wished for in an heir.”

“What in his entire life has he lacked?” Howard raged, relentlessly. “What in his possession can he claim he is not beholden to me?” Throwing the contents atop the dresser onto the floor, he screamed, now, “Goddamn it, J, explain it to me! And despite the promise of the most powerful, affluent private empires in the civilized world, he repays me by fucking that sissy Potts boy in _my_ _own_ _house—_ in full knowledge of my associates— the mortification!”

Unflinching, Jarvis said: “He should long ago have earned your esteem.”

“All I’ve built, toiled for, dashed for his perverse indulgence!” Howard was a few steps closer to Jarvis. Whether his advance was conscious in his rampage, it could not be said. “Disgraced me!”

“You have disgraced yourself!”

Jarvis’s proclamation tolled harshly across the divide between them. Even he perhaps had never heard such an edge in his tone. Howard actually halted and stared. 

“It is shameful, certainly, that you have denied your only child the barest show of acceptance,” Jarvis growled, “but you cannot, no matter the authority you attribute to yourself, deprive him of the love of another.”

Raving, Howard met his tone. “So, I alone am the author of his failure, am I? How ironic! But perhaps you are right, J, as always.” He sauntered away, defecting now to the window. “I am to blame. Not the Potts fancy. Not his mother and her perverse tastes. No, I— because I did not pet him enough. Didn’t let him snot on my shoulder or coddle his insecurities.” Breaking the tirade, Howard drew a long, deliberating breath through his nose. “So, now, Jarvis, the suspense is killing me.”

Jarvis knew what Howard was implying. What did he plan to do? When Tony was a young boy, Jarvis had drawn a line, given an ultimatum; but, Tony was eighteen now, a man in practicality. It was much more difficult to protect a man. There were ways, however; and, Jarvis was not afraid of Howard Stark.

“What’s your new threat?” Howard persisted, a lilt to his voice, a tilt of his chin. “Surely, your last one has quite expired by now.”

  
  


In the hallway, Maria Stark pulled at her son, demanding his attention. “Let Jarvis handle this, _cuore mio_!” It was useless; he arched away like a drowning animal, clawing at the door. The entire world had gone mad!

From within the bedroom, there was a low, terrible crack.

Tony bolted away from her; where he was heading, she could not guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m struggling with this one. I know where I’m going, but I think I must have really underestimated what it would become when I first began.
> 
> I am indebted to those of you still reading. Thank you for your encouragement and faith! I am truly humbled!
> 
> -Marli


	11. If You’re Blind to Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony survives his confrontation with Howard, in no small part because of Jarvis’s intercession. Yet, there is something unresolved between Tony and Jarvis. Neither seem to be able to meet each other in directness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings:
> 
> In this story, I’ve chosen to use a transgender character’s dead name and gendered pronouns according to her assigned sex at birth. I do this to illustrate where she is on her journey of self-acceptance and the perceptions of the other characters to her.
> 
> Another trigger warning for this chapter: homophobia and internalized homophobia, also- feelings of betrayal surrounding a character’s perceived or feared indifference to child abuse and rejection of another based on sexual orientation.

Jarvis let his heartbeat slow lest it upset his river-calm voice with eddies of exhilaration. Across the room, Howard reclined against the wall. He was deceptively reposed. Jarvis knew better. He had served Howard Stark since they were both young men; he’d seen him “bury the bodies,” so to speak, conquest, and, indeed, raise an empire that, on days, rivaled the earth’s principalities. Howard made himself a king in the world. This feat was not accomplished by lack of conviction, confidence, or cunning.

Yet, Jarvis had been preparing for this bout since he had discovered Tony, so  _ precious _ to him and Ana, lying on the rug under his feet that night seven years ago. King, Goliath, or enterpriser— the man that stood before him was just that, a man. When his pulse was even enough not to disturb his tone, he offered:

“No threat. Only a precaution.”

For a moment, Howard’s eyebrow ticked like the second hand on a clock. Then, he probed. “Is there a difference?”

“Your legacy, as you’ve called it, is no mere business or patent. Stark Industries is indeed a Behemoth of innovation; yet, still with great projection for the future.” Jarvis said. Howard bemusedly listened. “Myself, I’ve seen the measures you’ve taken, the groundwork laid, and I know as well as you” — he fixed Howard with an uncompromising stare— “what you’ve begun, what you’ve envisioned, cannot be realized in your lifetime.”

Howard ground his teeth audibly.

“Thus, your need is for, not only an heir, but one who is truly able to  _ succeed _ you. To finish the work… And make the Stark name last.”

“What,” Howard growled, shifting from the wall, “is your precaution, J? Hm? Are you just rubbing my nose in it—?” He drove his foot down against the low windowsill beside him. The wood splintered under the force, groaning loudly enough that the sound claimed the entire room.

Jarvis was unmoved, however. He continued. “My Ana saw the boy’s genius, when he was just knee-high. She  _ fostered _ it… Cultivated it in him… All while you could not be bothered. You ought to thank her.” The last line was spoken lowly.

“Ought I?” Howard sneered. “I suspect I should thank her for many things.” He said pointedly. Jarvis harnessed his breath and remained still. “You’re delivering a pretty speech, J, but I believe you’re off-course.”

“Tony will surpass you.” Jarvis said. His declaration earned Howard’s proper attention. “My Ana recognized it first and it is undeniable now. Whether he will inherit Stark Industries is your choice, but it is not essential to his success. You would be foolish to assume it is the one and only arena in which he will thrive.”

Howard turned away and Jarvis saw that his strike had hit the mark. This man wanted his son to heft the mantle of his acclaim, carry it beyond Howard’s mortal reach, but not to earn his own celebrity, at least not until Howard was given his full due. The thought of Tony as a rival within his own lifetime had not occurred to Howard. He couldn’t quite regain his composure.

Jarvis threw another jab. “Then, if you underestimate and disown him, it begs the question: who will act as inheritor? Not an illegitimate child, one you’ve not groomed for the position... even if you’d not lost track of them over the years.” Jarvis ignored the indignant sniff from his employer. “I suppose you would entrust an associate like Mr. Stane, who is a shark in business, granted, but no visionary? Who would allow your empire to stagnate?” The final blow: “Who would brand your work with his own name…?”

“Enough!” Howard roared. “Jesus, J! At one time I had sworn we were friends. What is this knife in my back then?”

“I told you, Sir,” Jarvis said, “this is a precaution. I am only offering a counter-argument so you may consider your options.”

Howard chuckled. “My options.” He mused, then, ran callused fingers over his rough chin.

Tony’s protestations from behind the hallway had long ceased. Jarvis breathed in relief with every second of silence. Wherever the young sir was, he was safe; he must be.

Howard drew his attention again. “I’ve considered your precaution, Jarvis. I must say, you’re quite the frontline man, aren’t you?” He smirked. “So, you’ve saved my life, and now my son’s,” he said and let the line turn as though rolling a pellet of incense in his palm. “Where do you go from here?”

* * *

Tony skidded to a halt in front of Jarvis’s apartment door. Trying the knob, perhaps too aggressively, he cursed again that they had moved to Richmond. Jarvis had accepted a small apartment within the mansion instead of requesting a separate house on the grounds. Tony hated this decision; he missed the cottage! He swore he’d buy it back one day.

The knob opened easily and Tony tripped inside. For a moment, his momentum stuttered through his calves; he couldn’t figure out where to dart. It was a lovely living quarter: modest, bright, with bedrooms looking out into the garden... perfect for Jarvis. Yet, for Tony, this place was the mere condensation of his sacred childhood sanctuary. The items on the walls had been pared down and the furniture was chosen with frugality, due to the smaller space. 

Traces of Ana here were only that.  _ Traces _ . Not enough, not enough to build a cocoon!

And, there was no punching bag here.

Tony had a gym now, a room in the mansion that was dedicated to his pugilistic finesse. There was a bag there, as well as a ring, training weights, and various, cutting edge exercise equipment. Howard had given boxing his unquestioning blessing. It was little surprise; the very first instance of Tony fighting another student at the academy, his mother sent a telegram berating him. It ended with the phrase: HOW WOULD YOUR FATHER FEEL ABOUT THIS? To which Tony sent the reply: RELIEVED?

But Tony had not raced to the gym; he had retreated to this shelter as the entire world screamed and exploded. Himself, he threatened to scream and explode. A bomb. He was possessed suddenly by years-old memories of crawling through the dirt in a thunderstorm, awed that the ground could be teeming with lightning.  _ What power _ ! his childhood self had thought.  _ What could that power feel like? _

Trembling, gasping, in Jarvis’s entryway, he was teeming with lightning— but this did not feel like power— this was instinct— fear in its most primal— this was crackling hot suffocation— this was starvation — this was  _ the look on Pepper’s face _ as— no, no, no! — this was being preyed upon— this was being born as a debt— the searing exhilaration of the religious flagellate — praying to a god who ignored him— this, this— shouting prayers into a— sucking— vacuous— insatiable—  _ nothing— _ Tony blacked out.

  
  
  


He gulped in a voluminous gasp when he struck the entryway floor. It was his first breath in nearly three minutes, though he didn’t know it. The wiry bristles of a foot mat beneath his bare shoulders, he laid in an aftershock of tingling electricity. No hangover headache could compare to the conflagration within his temples. 

Blankly, he tried to recall what happened— he knew where he was and  _ why _ , but didn’t understand why he’d fainted.  _ Locked my knees? _ he wondered. He shifted to accommodate the pounding at the base of his skull, evading nausea.

Suddenly, cold, suddenly,  _ noticeably _ exposed, he ran a hand across his chest. His wrist stopped limply over the cavity wherein lie his heart— such a small creature, hiding in there. With a steadying sigh, he rose and girded his torso with his chilled arms. Reciting to himself,  _ relax, inhale, tense, exhale, relax _ … he shuffled to find something to clothe himself.

“Should have kept sleeping,” he muttered.

* * *

As Jarvis approached his apartment, the music of jostled tea service began to flitter from under the door. The sounds danced by his shoes and he hesitated; suddenly he didn’t yet wish to face Tony. His stomach clenched unbearably tight.

He greatly wanted to check the welts on Tony's sides. The young man had very likely not applied any salve or even a cold cloth to them. However, he didn’t know what he should say. If only he could care for him without saying anything; wouldn’t they both prefer it?

If Tony were still a child, it would be easier. He could enter, assure him that everything was taken care of, tell him that he was leaving Stark Mansion, but there was no cause for worry, and he’d not need to explain how or why. Again, he grieved that he and Ana had not tried to take him away when he was a child. But then, how could they have managed that? He still couldn’t conceive a strategy that could not harm Tony more than help him. Howard truly possessed far too much power.

The delicate clinks ceased. Jarvis wondered what sort of encounter awaited him. As deeply as he cared for Tony, he could only guess at what he could be feeling or where his thoughts were directed. He remembered the thrown desk from a little over a month after Jarvis had confronted Howard the first time; he remembered the way the boy sulked, the fear that led him to bait Ana… Ana had confided to him that night, as they lay folded up against one another in bed, that she’d been scared that Tony had severed himself indefinitely from her. Thankfully, his Ana was wise and discerned that the boy was seeking security, the promise that Ana would not treat him the way Howard had.

If such a test was awaiting him, Jarvis wanted to be fully prepared to give that assurance of unconditional love in a way Tony would accept it.

Curiosity ( _ did the young sir actually  _ make himself _ tea? _ ) prompted him, finally, to turn the knob. The door opened onto the little parlor/dining room; his table was set without a cloth, a steaming teapot on top of a serving platter, and with a tea cup on its saucer, a dribble of milk on the visible crescent of reflective silver. Tony carefully placed a stick of cinnamon in the cup. Jarvis saw instantly that he was wearing one of Jarvis’s own shirts. The sight stunted his perceptions of all else until Tony noticed him and shrank back from the table.

For a full, quiet moment, they stood together. It was not tense, Jarvis recognized, though it was a clumsy coexistence. Tony appeared to be glowing softly, like a candle in daylight. Of all the reactions Jarvis imagined the young sir to have after this morning’s turbulence, he’d never thought Tony would blush.

“Are you hurt?” Jarvis asked. A redundant question, but he needed to speak— needed there to be speech, movement— and this was the first phrase to form.

Tony hesitantly, avoidantly, shook his head. In doing so he glimpsed his torso and took a breath. “I hope it’s alright. I…” Feeble-voice, he spoke. He indicated the shirt, gingerly touching the fabric.

“Of course, Young Sir. You are welcome to anything you need in my home.” Jarvis replied simply, then waited for Tony to guide the conversation.

Instead, Tony lifted the cup and saucer and held it up for Jarvis to take.

“Oh.” Jarvis said with a polite surprise. “Thank you, indeed.” He crossed to where Tony stood. Hands brushed, to which, the young man flinched.

As soon as Jarvis relieved him of the cup, Tony sprang into a nervous chatter. “J, I— We weren’t…” He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to make sure you understood. It was not, uh, what Howard assumed.” He was looking at the table. “Pepper—uh.”

Jarvis frowned, trying to decipher the message, but too distracted by Tony’s uncharacteristic vulnerability.

“Samuel, he was only acting as a friend.” Tony swallowed. His throat was constricted; Jarvis could hear it in the way his tone came writing forth. He shook his head, unsatisfied with his explanation. “He was trying to— sh-show me what, um, it could feel like to… I had told him that I had yet to experience love— uh… We were not being” — he warbled and paused.

“ _ Perverse _ ” — the whispered word was sharp as a needle; Jarvis thought Tony might cry. Jaw tightened, he forged ahead. “Anyway, Samuel— he’s not funny that way. And I’m not...” Belligerence, like that of a soldier surrendering to his captors, spiked up suddenly. “Do you understand?”

Jarvis put the tea cup and saucer on the table. Tony winced, but Jarvis didn’t think much of it. “Young Sir, you do not owe me any assurances or explanations.” He said.

Tony shrugged. “I just don’t want you to have the wrong impression.” He turned away, as though ending the conversation. A much more familiar animation course through him; he seemed himself again, armor donned, persona intact. Jarvis thought, ironically, it was wrong.

“You and Master Potts have always had a wonderful friendship.” Jarvis ventured carefully. If this were his test, he wanted to approach Tony with all genuineness. However, he had the sensation of writing in sand. Tony glanced painfully at him. “And, whatever you experience together, be it, er, love or— that is between only yourselves. No one else need be involved.” 

Tony was staring at him, in clear agony. 

Jarvis attempted to calm the discomfort by expounding on his acceptance of the event. “After all,” he attempted again, “one can imagine it would be preferable to experience first love within the safety of a friendship than to enter marriage without some” — a truly valiant effort, this— “knowledge.”

“Thank you,” Tony muttered, “Jarvis.” He strode decidedly away. Before Jarvis could determine whether he had succeeded in banishing the young sir’s fear, Tony asked: “So, what’s my sentence? Have they called in the firing squad?” The particular inflection of unconcern sluiced over his inquiry.

“Actually, Young Sir,” Jarvis pursued him to the sitting furniture. “There is a matter which I’d like to discuss with you.” He shook; Tony saw it. “I am leaving the service of the Stark family— of my own accord,” he reassured quickly. “And, I would encourage you to return to Boston straight away— Master Potts is waiting for you on the road— and do not return until your schooling is finished.”

Tony slumped. He hung between his shoulders like a wet rag on the line. As Jarvis thought, horrified, that he had failed the test after all, the color in Tony’s cheeks dispersed like vapor.

* * *

  
Five days earlier, Tony rested his head in the crook of Pepper’s thigh. They were lying together on the cool, white sheets of the single bed in Jarvis’s guestroom. The windows were open. Tall rose-of-Sharon bushes fawned at the window and hid them from view of those in the garden. Jarvis, of course, was busily attending to his duties around the estate.

Tony talked to Pepper— he couldn’t stop! So new and familiar and counterintuitive and natural and frightening and peaceful… Pepper had shed his armor (among other things.) Tony, when his mouth was not fit against the most delicious places— like the two sagittal dimples on Pepper’s lower back, which his kiss filled perfectly— he was engaging him in discussions or wordplay or divulging secrets. He seemed intent on entrusting Pepper with his soul, piece by piece. It was bitterly, sweetly painful to mine the veins running so deeply within him, yet the relief was unlike any pleasure he’d known before.

When Pepper began to shift as though the weight of Tony’s head against his hipbone was too much, Tony moved up and tucked himself under Pepper’s chin instead. Ah but, then there was the urge to sink against the slender neck, or taste that nook where Pepper’s jaw met his ear, and then maybe slip his tongue underneath the earlobe and feel it nearly melt there...

Pepper giggled. “When do you ever rest?” He asked in a hushed tone.

“Odd complaint,” Tony murmured from deep in Pepper’s resplendent, red hair, “from the one who  _ woke me up _ .” He rose and fell into kissing Pepper’s lips.

“My mistake.” Pepper grinned between kisses. Then, he wrapped his arms tightly around Tony’s head and wrangled him down, lying him cheek to chest. “Just be still with me!” He implored, so Tony settled there. For a moment, they sighed together.

However, Tony couldn’t be suppressed. “I wish you could have seen the cottage at the Long Island house, Pep. I wonder if the chrysalis houses have been left alone.” His brow furrowed. “There were so many butterflies hatched in those houses we built… You’d be keen on it, I’m sure. Like a garden in the sky. How’s that for poetry?”

“I should have liked to see that.” Pepper opened his eyes and watched Tony, though he could not see his face. To compensate, he plowed his fingers through Tony’s dark curls, trying to know his heart by feeling him, whatever way he could. His hand paused and he said, “I miss Ana.”

Tony popped up to ask, “Why do  _ you _ miss her? You only met her a few times.”

“True. But, she was in every letter you wrote. So…” He smiled. “She was part of my happiness, in that way, for years.”

Tony wanted to argue. Sometimes Pepper spoke in very irritating ways. He was an odd blend of concrete thought and romanticism. However, he left very little room for persuasion. Tony could argue with him all day and never sway him. Then Pepper would purse his (pretty) eyelashes, tilt his (pretty) chin, and draw his lips into a (cheeky) smile, and Tony would forget that he’d lost the debate. (Though he often did what he wanted regardless.)

“You miss her.”

Tony nuzzled Pepper’s chest. If for no other reason than to avoid his eyes. “Yes.” He said. Then: “You are like her. Only, a man.”

Pepper hummed. He said, “You’re very much like her.”

Sloughing off the comment, for a reason he couldn’t name, Tony said, “I don’t understand why Jarvis forgave Howard for forcing him to leave the place Ana is buried.” In truth, even as he said it, Tony thought,  _ I’m no better. I am, after all, cast in Father’s image… _ “He should stop forgiving us.”

Not questioning if Tony had meant to say “us,” Pepper replied: “Have you asked him for forgiveness?”

The question shocked Tony. A glacial despair took him by the ribcage. “I— He always forgives me.” Like the whine of the old garden gate, his voice died away. “Though, I don’t ask.”

“He loves you.” Pepper pulled his fingers gently through Tony’s locks. The motion was reminiscent of something… a rocking chair?

“I know,” Tony said, cloaking his guilt in brevity. Who had ever treated him like Jarvis did? He spent all the time he could with him, every summer or winter holiday, when he was visiting home. Jarvis was his companion, his mentor— he still trained him in boxing as well. And, Tony cherished him.

“He left the cottage, accepted this apartment, to be here for you.” Pepper said. Yes, Tony knew, somehow, all of this already. “And, do you forgive  _ him _ ?”

“For what?” Tony sprang up again, though too afraid to look Pepper in the face. Afraid some psychic confession would pass through their gaze.

For a few years, Tony had a recurring nightmare. He stood, quavering and thin, of fluctuating age, and Jarvis was before him. Their eyes were on each other as though ready for a full dialogue. Jarvis’s expression was imperturbable, as always, but in the dream, the sight stung Tony. It hurt to see his face so placid. “J,” Tony would cry, “Father is hurting me.” But, Jarvis did not speak. He didn’t move. “I want you to know—“

Tony tried again and again to tell him— different pleas, different details— until he realized that he was trying to  _ convince _ Jarvis, and Jarvis refused to elicit a response.

Had he told Pepper about this? Did he write it in one of his letters? But, Pepper didn’t act like he had. He continued to stroke Tony’s hair. The scent of earth and sun unfurled from the motion. To answer Tony's question, he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Tony curled into his friend’s side. After contemplating Pepper’s newest riddle, he blew a long, nasal breath and looked up at him. He cupped Pepper’s cheek, asking for help, a clue, or for the answer, with his eyes.

Pepper remarked, “You both care for each other so much, but act blind towards one another. It’s as though you’re embarrassed by your proximity, so you jump away; yet, Howard and Maria both recognize that you consider Jarvis something neither of them have ever been. The staff here, too, know how close you are. These performances you put on are only for yourselves.”

“You,” Tony murmured slowly, “are brutal, Pepper Potts.”

Pepper snickered sadly. Repositioning so his nose lay aside Tony’s, he nestled closer. “Why don’t you talk to each other?”


	12. Since I Don’t Know My Father, I Won’t Be a Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is with Tony now, but feels as frozen out of his life as ever.
> 
> In the past, Jarvis prepares to confront Tony about his self-abuse.

_January, 1903_

The Sort-Out Club was situated near the center of the East Brooklyn Railyard. Rhodey, who had begun his career in the railroad industry there, and carried a certain sentimentality for it, had designated and refurbished one of the tall warehouses into a club for the yard workers. The building was roomless, with a single, 5-ft. wide platform wrapping around the interior which served as a second story, accessible by a single case of iron stairs at the South wall.

A quarter of the warehouse was furnished with round banquet tables and chairs. Bands from around the city came to play often. Some of the musicians worked on the railways. Others came by invitation. Beyond the tables was a bar, though the cabinets were locked except Friday nights, Saturday nights, and holidays. The station master had the only key.

The remainder of the building was a sports club in every right except that it was clean of the elitism of those “city-recognized” clubs. There was a decent-sized ring for boxing or wrestling; there were gymnastics mats, a beam, and a set of bars for pull-ups; there was a series of weights available; and, five heavy punching bags were erected along most of one wall. 

Railway workers were welcomed to use the club any time they were off the clock. Many made it their _de facto_ home when working extra shifts, with the blessing of Rhodey (or,“The Colonel”). All activities in the Sort-Out were sanctioned and monitored by the station master, Jefferson Morales— or, he _would sort you out_.

Tony led Peter through the multitude of train cars and intersecting tracks on the Yard to the Sort-Out Club. It felt like walking through the insides of an engine. Peter hurried to keep up, but Tony’s stride was heavy, resolute, and aloof. He could have been an automaton. Something had seized Tony’s mind; even the sparse, superficial conversation was becoming disjointed from him and his words hung from a single hinge.

Peter’s foot skidded on another frozen track; he caught himself, his entire weight on his knuckles, in the snow. Ahead, Tony turned, but Peter was already upright and brushing off snow. Still, Tony asked: “How are you faring, kid?”

Delighted to be spoken to, Peter tried to ignite a longer conversation. “I’m fine, sir. Can’t imagine how trains can brake on icy tracks like that, but maybe they’re built that way?”

Tony continued their trek. However, he threw back a polite continuation of the conversation. “As long as the brake lines don’t freeze as well… But, we’ve developed brake systems with release valves...” He barely finished the thought.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot that you’ve designed a lot of train engines, Mr. Stark.” He said. He hadn’t forgotten.

As though Tony was thinking the same and must not have seen the point in responding, he grunted mildly. Peter let the conversation haunt the air between them; his thoughts turned to the train cars, vaguely alive, yet _not_ , like mastodon carcasses, frozen for eons before discovery, then pictured in a scientific news article.

Like the arctic ogre, locomotives were unthreatening but terrifying— Peter thought of them as modern Behemoths, only, instead of being beasts of scales or flesh, these were iron-wrought, with furnaces as souls. Their roars kept check on industrious humankind. Their tracks culled the expansion of skyscrapers, as though Babel was being built in installments, and over the span of a nation. 

Any man who felt he had claimed the land could be broken by the thunderous shout. Even at fourteen, shuddering under the power of each passing train, Peter would stare with morbid fascination, almost _waiting_ to be abased for his hubris in standing so close to the rails. As a Queens brat, he wasn’t shy about railroad tracks. He and all the neighborhood kids played on the beveled mounds that exalted the railways from the ground. With the others, he’d throw the gravel or slide down the mounds on his heels. He had especially good balance and often won competitions for walking on the tracks as if on a circus wire. So, being close to the monsters as they tore past was an everyday occurrence that nevertheless left Peter shaking in his shoes.

“Have you ever been to a train yard?” Tony asked once the kid had caught up with him. He must have noticed Peter’s wide-eyed vigilance.

Peter took a self-conscious step away from Tony’s side. He didn’t want to appear like he was clinging. (He was.) Tony, however, was oblivious to this insecurity. “Uh, no, sir. Is this where Col. Rhodes works?”

“Here and about,” Tony answered, passively. After a distracted moment, he added: “He’s the New York Railroad’s supervisor, so he oversees, well, damn near everything and everybody in the company. The workers here like to boast about how Rhodey has a sweet spot for them, at the yard; but his office is actually at that godawful, hoity-toity station in Manhattan, where the passenger trains are. Of course, he’s also helping me with the railroad expansion in the West.”

Momentarily stunned by this, the longest speech Tony had given since reappearing that afternoon, Peter was thoughtful. He nodded as though he understood; but, honestly, the concept of a career, the earning of a living, was beyond his comprehension. He thought he’d known; he’d earned money and brought home food for his family since he was eight years old, maybe younger. But the difference between earning a weekly wage and running a business, partnering with other companies, and tracking finances… 

It sent a hot poker of insecurity and embarrassment to his abdomen. The argument he had with Tony was all the more humiliating. He couldn’t believe how foolish he’d been. 

He cast a side-glance at Tony’s back.

Wasn’t Mr. Stark so much like the trains? He never thought so before, when Tony sat with him in the workshop, reading academic discourses on thermodynamics, or chatting good-naturedly about this and that. He was charismatic, certainly, but he had always been approachable and considerate. Even when he was exasperated, he didn’t speak down to Peter like so many fine gentlemen and ladies.

However, Peter was beginning to see another side of Tony— as a man who worked in the tall skyscrapers, who guest-lectured at the University, who had the livelihood of thousands of Stark Industries workers on his shoulders. Peter saw his _power_ ; he was a driving force, incomprehensible, like a steam engine. Also, though, Tony carried himself with prestige. He did simply charge across the Earth. He was elevated. 

Ever since Peter himself had pointed out the distinction between them— “ _We_ don’t go to school _”_ he had said— the divide had felt canyons-wide. But then, he’d always known that they were from different places, hadn’t he? 

He was a Jew, born to put his head down and work. He would scrimp up a living and stay quietly in his community. Maybe built a quiet fortune, a quiet celebrity, but remain in his own, designated space. And, he wasn’t even educated. Peter was nothing like Tony. They didn’t belong together, and that _fact_ screwed itself into both jaws, effectively silencing him as he trudged in Tony’s wake.

Peter just wanted Tony to look at him again.

  
  
  


_November, 1877_

The fight was called in favor of the blond. Jarvis had seen Master Rhodes rip the white towel from his back pocket and sling it, like a baseball pitcher would a ball, into the ring. Tony— his Young Sir— was splayed on the mat in an inebriated, mindless wreck. His attempt to rise, just after Rhodes pitched the towel, looked as disjointed as the movement of a picture film in a nickelodeon. Jarvis found his pulse lurching along with Tony.

This was far from the first time he’d watched Tony in the ring. His first match had been sanctioned in the Huntington Gentleman’s Sports Club when he was sixteen. The opponent, a wiry and flamboyant fighter of Tony’s own age, never stood a chance. Tony shot up like a dozen released springs and the poor other lad was on the floor. A one-hit knockout. Tony’s appetite was whetted by the simple victory.

Jarvis would be dishonest to claim that he was not relieved. Tony’s mood leveled out. He expended so much energy in the ring that he rarely had enough to lend toward his battle with his father. He left the house more often, to visit with boys he met at the club. They called themselves friends, but, most only wanted to reap the profits of Tony’s standing, his notoriety, or the excitement of his augmenting persona. Tony could tell the difference, as well; he remained guarded but enjoyed the new attention.

And, to Jarvis’s cautious solace, Tony, unlike so many of the other rich young men in the club, did not lose sorely. Jarvis had long thought that the American aristocracy did not equip their heirs with the fortitude they needed; as soon as they were challenged or did not receive want they thought they were owed, they lost heart and grew violent. Overgrown hissy fits, Jarvis thought of these displays. _Especially from the East Coast lads._..

Yet, Tony didn’t pitch any fits or claim entitlement or make any such fool of himself. He reacted to losses in the same way as wins— with unruined confidence and an exhilaration bordering on pleasure. Not that he lost very often, which may have helped, but it did impress Jarvis how much his young sir could adapt and advance in this competitive environment. He was proud of Tony.

Still, there was a nagging in his heart. After Tony turned eighteen, after Howard had abused and humiliated him one last time, when Tony severed ties with the Stark name for good, something changed in the ring. _It always does_ , Jarvis knew, _and once one carries trauma into the ring with themself, one is hard-pressed to divert it. Emotions are a train off its tracks once a fighter begins fighting._

Dr. Pym, his new employer, was the first to direct him to the paper, where reports of Tony’s matches in Boston had begun to appear. “Thon’s the Stark lad, making his own name, so it would seem.” The doctor had sighed after handing Jarvis the paper. The column read:

> _ Boxing . The event of the established champion, Quentin Beck, versus the upstart swarmer, T. Mickey Stark, had been settled in the minds of most knowledgeable ones in the sporting world on the eve before the match. The N. Y. newcomer stands at 5 foot, eight inches to the champ’s 6 foot and five; yet, he is as much a contender in dexterity as a seasoned out-boxer. Beck’s powerful straights and cunning feints, which were expected by most to determine the outcome this past Saturday night, failed to subdue the spitfire youngster. Stark won the match over Beck by knockout in the fifth round. _

Dr. Pym met his gaze when Jarvis had finished. “News to you?” When Jarvis answered only “somewhat, I suppose” (for it was no great surprise, yet, Tony had not written of his boxing career in any of his correspondence), Pym hummed. “‘Fine time to subscribe to the Times,’ as they say.” He remarked and wandered back to his office chair. 

From then on, Jarvis scoured the newspapers for boxing reports from Boston featuring a T. Mickey Stark.

Peals of approval and objection from the other spectators nearly deafened Jarvis. Before he could orient himself, shake off the memories, and attempt to go to the ring, go to pick up his broken little one, to carry him away to be mended, the shouting men began to jostle him. He peered over their heads, between their waving fists. Rhodes was in the ring, helping Tony sit upright. The blond had regained his feet and offered a hand. Tony didn’t shake it; perhaps he couldn’t.

Jarvis began to trace a path through the swarming crowd. The referee in the ring was futilely yelling commentary to the spectators about the next match up on the card. Ducking and maneuvering through flailing arms and tramping legs, Jarvis cleared a section of seats. He glimpsed Tony smack away Rhodes’s supporting arm. Rhodes began to shake his head, apparently reaming Tony for his actions.

Tony pushed his way from the ring, vanishing through a door, into what must be a locker room. Rhodes, heatedly, followed, but abruptly broke his stride and ended his pursuit. He held the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to tamp down his emotion.

The spectators forsook their excitement and settled into the seats again. The announcer bellowed the names of the next two boxers and their stakes and the crowd quieted. Jarvis took the opportunity to call to Rhodes. He reached him in a few more strides.

Rhodes’s jaw worked painfully. He shook his head. “Mr. Jarvis,” he said with a heavy breath. Then, he shook his head a few moments longer.

Gently, Jarvis indicated the exit. They moved from the gym into the privacy of a short hallway. Rhodes tried again: “I’ve never seen him this way. He’s impossible— I mean, I’ve seen him reckless. I’ve seen him manic.” Rhodes huffed. “Foolish, drunk— I’ve come to care for him very much, you know, sir.”

“Yes, Master Rhodes,” Jarvis said. “I appreciate your friendship with the young sir, as I know he does as well.”

Rhodes merely frowned and continued his diatribe. “I've never seen him like this, though. He’s going to get himself killed.” Here, he held Jarvis’s gaze, requesting that his fear be heard for the inevitability that he held it to be. One could imagine that he’d similarly begged Tony to take him seriously. Jarvis only returned the look, choosing not voicing his own excruciation over Tony just yet. “Thank you for coming, sir. I believe something is very wrong; maybe he’ll talk to you about it.”

“I do hope so,” said Jarvis. He did not tell Rhodes that he had seen Tony this way before. His mind was a dark room and embarrassed visions fled his sight, yet, they refused to leave him entirely: Tony’s bloodprint on the wall, Tony weeping brokenly against him, Tony kneeling by Ana’s stone, and the heavy drop of the sherry bottle in the snow… Tony’s glassy eyes, seeking grace, but rebelling against a love which held him accountable. 

“I will speak with him, directly.”

Rhodes nodded and left him with a parting request: “Well. Tell him a few things on my behalf, too.”

  
  
  


_January, 1903_

Peter marveled at the mural on the side of the Sort Out Club building. Vibrant, the image broke like dawn from under the smog. The tint of each color of paint was supernatural. It was almost fluorescent.

The scene was composed as a sort of lemniscate, Peter noticed; railroad workers, laboring at their prospective jobs, coursed into each other. Yet, he saw, the usually unmentioned workers like the switch operators, and, especially, those driving rail spikes to lay the tracks, were in the foreground. The engineers and conductors were present, just diminished, Peter thought. 

There were no hard lines; instead, it reminded Peter of a mosaic. And, the large swaths of paint flourished in a definite motion, as though there’d been one actual brushstroke but hundreds of small brush heads. The painting wasn’t like the museum pieces he’d seen. It seemed to swim, infinitely in a figure-eight.

Tony stood a while and watched him admire the painting. The wind was bitter, though. “Come on, kid. Let’s get inside.” He called. As Peter clomped up, he added, bemusedly, “Forgot about that mural; it’s very good, isn't it?”

Peter grinned. “Sure is, sir. I’ve never seen a painting like that.”

“You should talk to Jefferson’s kid. He’s the artist— a lot like you, too. Awkward but talented.” Tony said and Peter sheepishly shrugged. This stirred Tony’s affection for the boy. _Silly-hearted thing_ , he thought, as he led them to the door at the West corner of the building.

A red mutt sat on an iron barrel by the big door. It watched them intently, every sinew of its body alert, but it didn’t bark. Peter smiled as he approached. “Hello, there, dog.” He lifted his hand, intending to lay his fingers on the large muzzle.

Tony darted forward and grabbed his wrist. “ _Guard dog_.” He emphasized. Peter blinked up at him then down at his wrist, which Tony quickly released. He wondered if the kid had also been reminded of their argument in the Parker kitchen, Tony holding him, preventing him from leaving. The mutt growled lowly. 

Instinctively putting out a protective arm between Peter and the dog, Tony shouted toward the door. “Hey, Jefferson! Call off your hound and let us in. It’s freezing out here.”

No eyes appeared in the iced panel at the door’s top as there usually did. Instead, the door groaned on rusty hinges and opened to them. An orange heat enticed them to enter. Around the edge, a short man’s scruffy face appeared. Tony knew him, but before he could speak, the fellow’s eyes snapped to Peter and he exclaimed: “Bully Trap!”

“Mr. Rocky?” Peter squeaked. Tony looked at him and saw his eyes swelling up like balloons.

“You know each other?”

Rocky snorted with indignation. “I’ve been known to make the acquaintance of respectable people.”

“We met when I was in jail, sir.” Peter explained.

"Ah," Tony said and appraised Rocky with an almost sadistic leer. "Jefferson sorted you out, huh."

“Well, are you just standing there? Or what?” Rocky pushed the door wider and beckoned them inside. He completely ignored Tony's baiting.

Tony guided Peter in first then stepped into the warm air himself. The raw sounds of pummeled heavy-bags and scuffling shoes seemed to release something within him. It was like the furnace latch on his spirit had been undone. Beside him, Rocky continued talking to gab with Peter. Tony steered his attention to the figures exercising, particularly to a towering man standing in the center of the elevated boxing ring.

“Mr. Stark, good evening, sir.” The man’s voice, a kind but strong tone, boomed. “Are you here to meet with Senator Ross for me?”

Crossing to the ring, Tony mimicked comical disgust. “My god, not if I can help it!” He took Jefferson’s offered hand and shook it. Then, he asked, “Is the meeting today?”

Jefferson nodded. “The Colonel sent word this morning that he wouldn’t be in. Said that he sent a similar message to the senator but that he may still show up. Asked if I could answer his questions, if he had any.” Jefferson eyed him. “I also heard Ross has it in for you right now, so perhaps it’s better for us both if he doesn’t show up, huh?”

“Hmm.” Tony didn’t comment. Rhodes hadn’t revealed to Jefferson why he was taking the day off, despite having such important business. He was the epitome of integrity. Guilt at his own impropriety needled Tony. “Yes, well, you see, my Pepper’s been raising Cain with the state the past few weeks over prison reform, specifically over juvenile offenders.”

Jefferson buzzed deep in his throat. “God bless that woman. I’d love to meet her some day.” He glanced over Tony’s shoulder where Peter and Rocky likely still were. “So, if you’re not going to help me out, what can I do for you, sir?” Jefferson joked.

Ignited again by the prospect of boxing, Tony called: “Mr. Parker!” Peter skipped up; politely, he met Jefferson’s gaze and nodded a humble greeting. “This is Mr. Jefferson Morales.” Tony waited until Peter finished shaking Jefferson’s hand; then dropped his own onto Peter’s shoulder. “My apprentice, here, expressed interest in seeing a boxing match.”

Jefferson smiled. “That right?"

“I told him I knew a place where there just might be a match happening.” Tony let the irony rise in his tone.

Jefferson nodded and gestured to the ring. There was no one in it now that he’d climbed down. “Just might, just might.” He climbed up, through the ropes, and turned back to Tony and Peter. “I was just about to teach these young dogs some new tricks.”

  
  
  


_November, 1877_

Jarvis’s soft leather soles skidded on the cement floor of the shower. Despite the large, brass drain at the center of the room, the entire floor was reflective with a wet sheen. Glimpses of the color and pattern of his coat were visible as he moved into the space. He saw Tony immediately, sitting slumped on a bench, nearly despondent. It reminded him, too painfully, of Tony propped against Ana’s gravestone.

Fear for Tony’s life from the past and present merged. Suddenly the room felt very cold; it was as if death blew its breath in here. Anger walked with him and he couldn’t recognize when it had emerged from behind him. He could have smashed the jug of moonshine that he dutifully carried with him, back to its owner, and watched every drop guzzle down the drain.

This would solve nothing, of course; the demon wasn’t the booze itself but some _force_ far more difficult to name or extricate. Yet, he still felt some catharsis could be achieved by dumping the alcohol Tony had used to do such harm to himself. It occurred, faintly, to Jarvis that he wanted to be rid of every tragedy or hurt of the past six, ten, or, maybe, twenty years with a single, purifying act.

Tony had not acknowledged his presence. He reached the bench and stalled. What to say? Could he not just gather Tony in his arms and care for him until he was well? No. There was no one act. The poison at its work would need to be extracted gradually.

So, he harnessed his breath, took up a towel laying nearby, and sat beside Tony on the bench.


End file.
